


Who You'd Be Today

by Arianna



Series: Brothers in Time (Gen Version) [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, American Revolution, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 02:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 123,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8515402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianna/pseuds/Arianna
Summary: Brothers in Time, The American Revolution.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [Starfox's Mansion](http://wolfpanther.com/).
> 
> Inspired by the song of the same name, sung by Kenny Chesney.
> 
> This story, set for the most part during the American Revolution, is a part of the continuing AU that presumes that Jim and Blair have lived many lives over the course of time. While I've inserted significant roles for the characters, I've also made an effort to present the actual events and the thoughts and actions of real historical personages in accordance with historical records.
> 
> Story Consultants: Annie and Nansi. I have to give a very special thank you to Annie (Trislindsay) and Nansi (emrinalexander) who gave me invaluable and incredibly generous support in providing detailed information and source material on the American Revolution. Any mistakes, inaccuracies or misrepresentation of the personages or historical events are entirely my own. And, Annie, thank you as well for your wonderful scenario ideas as this story was beginning to be written - many of them have found their way into the text.
> 
> Beta: Thanks, StarWatcher! A long story like this one is a lot to ask of anyone but you not only did your usual great job, you worked magic with the beginning so that it flows much better and conveys the haunting quality I was seeking.
> 
> Cover Art by Suzanne. Thanks, sweetie. I know this story was hard for you.
> 
> Warning: This is the only kind of death story I can ever bring myself to write ... but, try to trust me.

_September, 1782_

Leaning heavily on the sturdy support of his stout, walnut walking stick, James Ellison limped slowly through the long, waving grass of the jutting headland. The sweet scent of clover and the pungency of the peat moss mingled with the fresh brine carried by the brisk breeze blowing in from the Atlantic. Above, the sky was a deep cerulean of such incredible clarity it was wondrous, and was softened only by the high white cumulous clouds, pure and pristine, as they scudded swiftly to the northeast. A perfect summer day, warm but not hot; a peaceful day, one to gladden the heart and raise a smile of gratitude to simply be alive.

But Ellison wasn't smiling; the haggard lines etched in his pallid face, the sadness in the depths of his light blue eyes suggested that he smiled rarely, if ever. He was garbed simply in a faded, homespun cotton shirt and trousers, and his moccasins were scuffed and worn, revealing a man who preferred comfort to style. His bowed back and stiff, awkward gait spoke of injuries badly healed, and of burdens that he'd never learned to set down; though not yet forty, he looked and felt as old as the hills. Panting with effort, he drew in shallow, open-mouth breaths as if starved for oxygen but afraid of inhaling too deeply.

Doggedly, though every limping step pained him, he continued on until he reached the point where the land fell away, dropping dizzily in a steep, rugged cliff to the sea. Below, the heaving waves roared as they surged up against the land's face in their eternal battle to wear away the rock, spewing white water in rhythmic, dazzling fountains of crystalline drops that refracted the light like thousands, maybe millions of tiny rainbows.

Jim winced and shielded his eyes against the bright, glittering glare of sun on the water, and searched the distant horizon, endlessly seeking what would never again be found in this life. His hand dropped and he took a breath; stealing himself as if for a blow, he turned away from the ocean's majesty to look down upon the plain stone marker at his feet. "Sunny days seem to hurt the most, kid," he murmured hoarsely, rolling his shoulders to ease the pain he wore like a heavy coat. Glancing back across the meadow he'd traversed, he sighed. "I swear, Chief, I see you everywhere I go."

Shaking his head wearily, he stepped around the grave to ease his weight onto a boulder that had been rolled next to it for just that purpose. Over the past four years, he'd spent every moment he could, though they'd been few and far between, out here on the edge of the world, remembering, regretting ... and talking to his lost friend. The man he couldn't seem to let go, and didn't want to ever forget. However foggy his mind became with irrelevant details of daily life that held no interest for him and the illness that weakened him more each day, the memories he carried in his heart were as clear as if the events had happened only moments before.

Memories of Blair.

"I see your smile," he whispered huskily, frowning as he studied the grave marker, as if it couldn't be real.

As if it was all still just a terrible nightmare and, someday, he'd wake up to a new morning where ... where Blair would still be with him.

"I see your face."

Like it was yesterday, not four long years since he'd last seen those sparkling eyes, the exact colour of the sky overhead - only Blair's eyes had been brighter than the sky, as if bits of starlight had been captured in their depths to add the sparkle of effervescent life. Four very long years, almost to the day, since he'd looked into those eyes. Cocking his head, he listened, his eyes closed so that he could concentrate better, and then a wistful smile played over his lips. "I hear you laughing in the rain." Such a rich, rollicking laugh, full of exuberant joy even as Blair bitched and groused about how wet and cold his world too often seemed to be - as it had been on the day he'd died. Swallowing heavily, feeling salt sting his eyes, he blinked and sniffed. "I still can't believe you're gone."

Sorrow welled in his chest as it always did, rising with a futile anger undiminished despite the passing of those infinitely lonely years. Looking away from the gravestone and back toward the sea, he railed into the wind. "It's not fair! You died too young!" His voice cracked and broke as he muttered, "Remember? You told me once that I was your favourite book?" Sniffing, he swiped his hand over his face and whispered huskily, "Well, kid, I never told you that you were my favourite book, too, but _your_ story had only just begun." His throat thickened and his voice cracked as he went on, "I ... I'd looked forward, you know? To seeing your story unfold ... to watching you grow old."

Desperate, impotent rage flared. Lifting his gaze to glare at the sky, his tone a curse against a too cruel God, he rasped bitterly, "But Death ripped all your pages away." Sighing, achingly weary, he bowed his head to gaze at the grave and said hollowly, "God knows how I miss you; and all the hell that I've been through just knowing no one can take your place." But he grimaced, disgusted with his own whining. He was alive, dammit, much as he resented that fact every damned day. He had little enough reason to complain. Reaching out to caress the warm, worn stone, he husked with wistful poignancy, his voice again cracking with guilt and grief, "It's just that - sometimes, I wonder ... who you'd be today."

Looking out to sea, he went on musingly, "Would you be out there somewhere, seeing the world? Chasing your dreams?" A slight, fond smile drifted over his lips. "Or would you have settled down with a family?" But the smile faltered and died as his eyes again misted, and he whispered brokenly, "I wonder, what would you have named your babies?"

He waited, as if half-expecting answers to his questions, and then lifted his gaze to the vast, endless sky, squinting against its searing brilliance. "Some days the sky's so blue," he sighed, "I feel like I can talk to you." The drawn expression eased, the lines of anguish melting away, and he smiled ruefully as he shook his head. Shrugging negligently, not really caring, he admitted, "I know it might sound crazy."

Missing his friend with an ache so deep he knew there'd be no easing it until death claimed him, too, he rubbed at his chest. The endless, unremitting, inconsolable grief of a loss so profound - of a friend, a soul so unique and dear to him - had ripped him apart, shattered him, and his heart had never been able to heal. Old, old guilt that he'd failed, that it was his fault, rose up to clog his throat. His lips trembled and he leaned forward to cover his face with his hands. No longer cursing God but himself, wishing fervently that his friend was still there, beside him, he moaned, "It's just not fair, you died too young." Struggling with his pain, he rasped, "Your story had barely begun before Death tore the pages all away."

Over the years, the same helpless words and thoughts had gone round and round, haunting him and wearing deep grooves of guilt and regret in his soul, like the wheel-ruts on a muddy road, so that he stumbled over them again and again. He hadn't allowed himself to weep in the all the years since, afraid if he lost his tightly held control he'd never regain it. But it didn't matter anymore; his work was done and he could finally let loose the reins on his grief. Tears leaked from his tightly closed eyes to slip down his weathered cheeks. A sob rose and broke, bearing all the pain he'd held bottled up inside day in, day out, as the weeks, months, and finally years passed with no healing, no peace and no acceptance that they'd lost one another forever. His heart _knew_ that it couldn't be over; it had barely begun. Fate _couldn't_ be that cruel. But his mind, his memories, knew that Fate was, indeed, that cruel, that heartless, that uncaring about the trivial matter of one man's death and another man's loss; hell, he'd carried the ashes here himself, buried them under that damned stone.

For all his heart railed and denied the truth, this was all he had left. This place and his memories.

"God knows how I miss you, and all the hell I've been through, just knowing no one can take your place," he whispered again hopelessly. The words, muffled by his hands and raw with sorrow, were caught by the wind and blown away. "Sometimes I wonder ... who you'd be today," he said again, repeating words he'd spoken a hundred times over the years, as if by imagining Blair's future he could somehow make it be, somehow call his friend back to him. Alone on the heights, with no one to see or hear, he could finally let his grief ride him, let the hot tears fall, and the sobs wrack his gaunt frame.

"Today," he whispered over and over, needing to imagine his partner as if he were alive, yet whipping himself with the reality that there were no more todays for his best friend. All of Blair's todays had ended years before.

The wild storm of grief passed, leaving him empty, exhausted, and breathless. A violent fit of coughing assailed him, cramping the muscles of his chest, and he gasped for ever more elusive breath until his breathing settled, as much as it ever did these days. Sniffing, he scrubbed the wet trails of hot tears from his face with calloused hands, carelessly wiped the smear of blood from his mouth, and then straightened his back. Lifting his head to again look out again across the rolling indigo sea to where it met the bright blue sky, squinting against the glaring sunlight that felt as if it could blister his eyes, he chafed under the soft shirt that nevertheless badly irritated his skin. The rhythmic roar of the waves battering the rocks filled his ears like claps of thunder, and the pungent, sweet and salty scents were so strong that he could taste them. Desperate for relief, he slid off the boulder and bent his stiff knees to slowly drop down beside the grave.

Gripping the stone, he tried to remember the way Blair had grounded him with his gentle but firm touch. He struggled to recall the rich, warm voice that had taught him so much, in so very short a time, about how to manage the senses that seemed his cross to bear ... or, as Blair had always said, his gifts to use. Blair had told him that he had to choose, had insisted that he could manage them, but not if he continually resented them and fought them. And while Blair had been with him, it had all worked and he'd been able to manage and use his senses, could harness them so that they didn't torment him; but only while Blair had been with him. Blair had held a kind of magic within him that made everything work, made the mystical and mysterious make sense.

This was the only place in recent months - out here on the headland beside his friend's grave - where he could sometimes find that peace again. Not that he believed Blair's blithe and lively spirit was buried in the earth or tied to the stone marker; he didn't. But ... out here, with only the wind and the water and the sky, he felt that if he listened hard enough, looked closely enough, he could reach out and touch his friend one more time. Though he knew it was crazy, sometimes ... well, many times in the past years, he'd felt as if he was actually hearing Blair's voice on the wind and imagined he could feel his friend's touch on his arm or on his back, steadying him, helping him focus in moments of danger and crisis, and assuring him that everything would be alright. There were even times, strange, inexplicable moments, when he'd been knocked right off his feet just in time to miss being hit by a bullet, just like Blair had often pushed him out of harm's way; only there'd been no one there, and he knew he must've just stumbled. But those moments of clarity, those illusions, only ever happened when he was in battle, and the battles were now all over. So he came out here and strove to recall the timber and cadence of the low, strong, compassionate voice that had anchored him and given him hope; hope and the strength to endure. If he could hear that voice again, feel that touch, see that bright, smiling face, and rejoice in the musical lilt of that laughter; if only ... ah, God, he ached with the need of Blair. It had been too long, too damned long.

He'd done his best in the years since, gone on fighting the good fight, doing all he could to help win the war, as Blair had wanted him do, had even been convinced he was born to do. Staring out over the long grass bent under the wind, he marveled that he'd lived to see the end of it, for he'd given no thought to his own survival after ... after Blair had died. Coldly, he'd buried his grief and, feeling little but helpless rage, he'd fought like a berserker, heedless of the risks because he hadn't cared a damn about living. Inside, he'd died on a stormy afternoon and, now, his body was as sick as his heart and soul had been for years. Recent wounds weren't healing properly; they said he was too weak, too ill to heal. Consumption filled his lungs and stole his breath, and he was glad to know that he was dying, that he could finally let go. He was tired, so unspeakably tired. All that was left these days was to come out here to the headland, to grieve and remember.

The breath tight in his heavy chest, Jim wrapped his arms around the stone and leaned sideways to rest his cheek upon it. Much as he wanted to indulge his imagination and pretend it was Blair's sturdy shoulders he embraced and Blair's chest that he rested his head upon, the stone was too hard, too still to play its part in such an illusion. Once again, his darkening eyes sought the sky. "Sunny days hurt the most," he rasped breathily. "Warm, bright, sunny days that you loved so much ... days like this when you should be here, laughing with that simple joy you had in just being alive. God, Chief, the pain of missing you ... the pain of these damned senses without you ... s'like a heavy coat I don't know how to take off, you know? Wears me down. I'm sorry to whine like this, kid, but I'm tired, Blair. I'm so tired." Drawing in a slow breath, steadying himself, he went on more strongly, "The _only_ thing that gives me hope is I _know_ I'll see you again someday."

_'Someday ...'_ echoed in his mind, over and over, and then, ' _Soon,'_ he thought with poignant hope. _'Please, Chief, soon.'_ Weary, so very weary, more than ready to be done with the business of life, he smiled wistfully and with gratitude to his long-mourned partner. Even this single, final comfort of his life, this unshakeable belief that they would meet again someday, had been a gift from Blair; for it had been Blair, not him, who had believed in forever and the ultimate mercy and joy of the universe. Blair had never shied from the mysteries, the unexplainable, and he had believed fervently that life wasn't about beginning and ending, but about learning more and more, to be of more use the next time around. Blair had told him with utter conviction that the soul was eternal and didn't die, but could choose to come back again and again. His last, very last words had been a promise ... _"I'll see you again some day."_

So Jim had clung to those words all through the empty, lonely years, and he clung to them still. They _had_ to be true. It was all that had sustained him, all that had kept him even marginally sane. He longed with all his heart for the day when he'd finally see Blair again.

Closing his eyes, enjoying the cool, fresh breath of wind on his face, he remembered Long Island in the late summer of 1776. He remembered meeting young Blair Sandburg just before the devastating battle with the British had nearly ended the Revolution before it had hardly begun....

* * *

_Late Monday evening, August 26, 1776_

Staying well clear of the open fields of barley, keeping under the thick canopy of the primeval forest of maple, oak, ash, birch and sycamore, filthy and disheveled, long strands of hair escaping the frayed ribbon at the nape of his neck, Jim stumbled through the dark, moonless night toward the encampment. He'd been following the course of the river, knowing that, even if he could barely see through the narrow slits of his swollen eyelids, the soft gurgle of rushing water would guide him back to the camp. He picked up the scent of burning wood and cooked meat, and hastened his step, only to stumble over the uneven ground, crashing to his knees. Cocking his head, he could hear the low murmur of voices, the occasional burst of low, masculine laughter, a voice raised in drunken song; almost there. He fought the profound ache of his muscles, resisting the urge to stop and rest, even if only for a few breaths of time. Up ahead, through the trees, he could see the flickering splash of firelight against the stygian darkness.

Close, he was close now. Nearly there.

Reduced to feeling his way forward, stumbling and crawling one painful foot at a time, he gritted his jaw against the need to curse with frustration and the maddening, relentless itch on his face, hands and arms from the poisoned ivy that he'd tumbled into just before the previous dawn, a rash that seemed to cover his whole body and that was exacerbated by countless aggravating mosquito bites.

It had taken him too damned long to get back from his provisioning mission to his brother, Steven's, farm, where he'd negotiated for the harvest on behalf of the General. He should have reported back days ago, but he'd been cut off by the sudden, unexpected arrival of a massive contingent of the British Army. He'd needed nearly a day to scout the opposing force, and had been shocked, even frightened, by their number; far too many for the much smaller American force to successfully meet in battle. Never had he seen so many redcoats; there were thousands of them. Though it was urgent that he report as soon as he could, he'd had to circle around the huge force that was making its way across the marshes from where they'd landed at Jamaica Bay. Wary of their guards and scouts, for two days he spent the daylight hours perched high in trees, or scrunched into a moldy log and, later, the trunk of a dying oak, trying to evade detection by the enemy, and moved only at night. Even traveling under cover of darkness had been hazardous with so many enemy patrols roaming the countryside. The night before, he'd had to take refuge in a swamp, all but his face under the surface of the malodorous muck as a foot patrol passed close by. Now, covered with the dried mud of the bog, he stank so badly his own stench nauseated him with every shallow breath. He craved being clean as he never had before, and was so tired that he could barely stay awake. Unable to risk hunting or a fire, on the move or stealthily still and alert for enemy patrols, he hadn't slept or eaten more than bark and berries for days.

But the very size of the opposing force had made it ungainly and slow, giving him time once he was around them to make it back with critical information - and none too soon if the redcoats kept moving this way.

"Oh my God," an unknown voice, as rich and warm as hot cocoa, cried out softly from the darkness. All Jim could make out was a vague impression of wild hair, and he smelled leather and fur. Briefly, he wondered if he'd encountered a hunter. "Captain Ellison! Are you wounded? Here, let me help you, sir."

Hands touched him, his arms, his back, and he had to bite back a moan. The words surprised him, scattering his confused belief of having encountered some hermit of the woodland, for this stranger recognized him and addressed him like a soldier. He could have wept with the profound relief of knowing he'd finally made it back to the camp. Floundering in his weakness, he grabbed hold of the other man, feeling soft leather garments under his hands, not the rough homespun apparel of the usual enlisted man, and he wondered again who the other man was. But satisfying his curiousity wasn't important; his mission was all that mattered. He had to pass on the terrible information he carried only in his head, or they'd all be lost before their battle for independence had scarcely begun.

"Need to see the General," he grated breathlessly. "Take me to him. Hurry."

"Sure - whatever you need," the man assured him, and then he asked hesitantly, "Can you ... can you lean on me? I don't want to hurt you."

"Yeah," Jim sighed, looping his arm around sturdy shoulders and, though the touch played hell with his skin, he was grateful for the strong arm that wrapped around his waist. The sentry was shorter than he was by several inches, but sturdy, and he willingly took Jim's weight as he supported Ellison through the camp.

The guard posted outside the General's tent started to challenge them, but then he hesitated. "Captain Ellison?" he asked uncertainly, and Jim got the impression the soldier was trying to see past the grit and swamp mud that coated him.

"Yeah," he muttered.

"Thank God," the guard exclaimed. "We'd 'bout given you up, sir! The General will be some pleased to see you."

Jim heard the slap of canvas on canvas as the tent flap was flipped back, and the sentry holding him helped him inside.

"Jim!" General Washington gasped, relief mixed with anxious concern clear in his tones. "What on earth happened to you?"

"L-long story, sir," Ellison stuttered, his words slurring as he fought off unconsciousness, his struggle to stay awake sorely challenged by the simple relief of having reached his goal. "The British Army ... only about a day's march from here, moving out of the flatlands toward Jamaica Pass. Took me awhile to get around them. Looks like as many as twenty thousand men, maybe more. Headed this way."

A moment of shocked silence greeted his words, and he could imagine the General's frown of concentration, but the pale, flickering light of the lantern burned his eyes and made them water, robbing him of what little sight he'd had. "Good work, Captain," Washington approved with a solemn, measured tone. "You've given us time to prepare. Corporal - see to the Captain's needs. If we have to fall back quickly, your first responsibility is to him - whatever he requires. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the deep, unaccountably soothing voice replied with alacrity. Wearily grinning to himself, Jim could almost hear the salute and he wondered just how young this kid was. Groggily, he shook his head. The General had called him, 'corporal', so he couldn't be all that wet behind the ears, not just a buck private who barely knew how to hold his weapon.

As they stumbled and staggered away from the command tent, Jim heard the orders go out for all the campfires to be doused, and all senior officers to report to the General immediately. Would they make a stand or fade off into the forest to fight another day? There was no doubt that the British were better armed and there were more of them but, God, he got tired of being on the run, of harrying rather than confronting. It wasn't in his nature to constantly slip into the shadows and hide.

Not that he was in any condition to fight at the moment. Hell, he was beyond standing up on his own.

It seemed to take a long time to get to wherever the Corporal was taking him. They must've made their way back through almost the whole of the camp, once again drawing close to the river bank where the kid had found him. Though feeling dazed, and knowing he wasn't thinking clearly, Jim nevertheless thought it odd that he'd not been simply assisted to the tent he was assigned. And he was also disturbed by some of the grumbled insults and suspicious or antagonistic, drunken shouts he hazily heard as they passed, realizing belatedly that they were being made about them - or at least about the soldier who was leading him somewhere. He wondered if the kid was hearing the unflattering commentary as well - he could scarcely miss it - or if he'd heard it all before. The only sound the Corporal made beyond low and encouraging murmurs that it wasn't much farther, was to call out with surprisingly fierce authority to a passing private to bring fresh clothing from the Captain's tent ... and to make damned sure he brought cotton or soft linen, not wool.

Finally, they drew to a stop and Jim dimly realized they were once again close to the river, for he could hear it burbling not far away.

"Easy, Captain," the kid's voice murmured. "We're here." Jim could hear the hesitation before the Corporal said quietly, with as much conviction as he could put into his voice, "Look, I know you're just about out on your feet, but I really think we need to get you cleaned up, so you can rest properly. So, uh, let's get your clothes off and I'll help you bathe in the river. It's got a bit of a chill, but not too bad. And I've got some mild soap that'll help with those bites; take the sting and itch out of them."

Jim was torn. On the one hand, he just wanted to fall on his face and sleep for a week. And it wasn't exactly decent to strip to the buff just to get clean. But ... the itch was driving him wild and his own stink sickened him. Besides, it was as dark as Hades, so who would even see? Not like there was a ladies' tea party going on anywhere nearby, and he didn't have anything the camp followers hadn't already seen. But, while he was dithering, the decision was taken out of his hands. Nimble fingers undid the buttons of his garments, and slid them and his boots off his body, while still holding him steady; the filthy ribbon tying back his shoulder-length hair was loosened. Briefly, he found himself leaned against the papery bark of a birch tree, with the hurried explanation, "Just give me a minute to get what I need, and I'll help you into the water."

The minute, maybe a little more, left him reeling, more asleep than awake, and then the strong arm was around him again, leading him down to the riverbank. He was aware of naked skin pressed against him, but was too tired to give a damn. Under his arm, Jim could feel the leather strap of a kit bag over the Corporal's shoulder, and he heard the dull thump when the kid dropped it to the ground.

The rush of cold water over his bare feet was a shock, and he hissed, but the gentle, firm coaxing continued, and the lure of being clean proved irresistible. He was soon immersed almost to his shoulders in the fast-flowing stream, and then eased back to float. The Corporal used his own body to brace him and cupped one hand under his chin to hold his face above the water, so he wasn't carried along by the current, and then strong fingers were massaging soap into his scalp, washing his hair until it squeaked with cleanliness. The sensation of the firm massage was incredibly soothing and he found himself going with it, drifting almost into sleep. A hand with a soft cloth began gently washing the grime from his face and then the slow flow of cool water from a cupped hand over his burning eyelids felt wonderful. He didn't know for sure what had caused the swelling, but figured he must've touched his eyes after he'd stumbled into poisoned oak or ivy in his last, desperate scramble to find cover before the dawn broke that morning. His body was lathered with whatever the soap was; gradually the itch diminished, and he sighed with simple gratitude.

He lost track of how much time they'd been in the river before he was being helped back onto the bank, to sit on a low rock. The caress of the night breeze made him shiver miserably, but then warm water was being slowly poured over him, like gentle rain upon his head and body, driving off the chill. Then he was being toweled dry, very carefully and gently, so as to not aggravate the abrasions, bites and pervasive rash.

"Just a few more minutes and you can get some clothes on and lie down, Captain," the soft voice assured him. His nose twitched, picking up various scents. One was sharp, astringent and it seemed to go with a balm that the kid was dabbing on his bruises and bites. Then an herbal scent filled the air, softer, sweeter than the pine and spruce of the trees around them, and a different, slightly stickier but more soothing lotion was being rubbed all over his body. "For the rash," the kid murmured, his hands moving in long, sure, firm strokes that relaxed stiff and sore muscles until Jim slumped against the other man's body, nearly dozing off. A light shirt made of homespun cotton was slid over his arms and back. Loose and soft, it rested lightly on his skin, and then he was helped into breeches of the same material. A tin cup of cool water was pressed to his lips and he drank thirstily. The Corporal eased him to his feet and guided him into a small nearby shelter, to lie upon a soft, clover-scented bedroll.

"I just want to do something for your eyes, so you'll be able to see out of them tomorrow," the kid said gently, soothingly. He made an inarticulate sound of agreement, feeling as if he was floating, the comfort of being clean and the relief of no longer itching leaving him in a state very near euphoria. Two small sacks, slightly damp, were rested over his closed eyes and he thought he caught the scent of herbal tea just before he slipped into sleep.

* * *

The low, urgent voices of uncertain men, soft nickering of horses, rasp of canvas, the clink of battered cooking pots and mugs being quickly packed away, and the creak of wagon wheels woke Jim in the early, pre-dawn hours of the next morning. Swallowing to moisten his dry throat and rubbing at still puffy eyes, he sniffed the scents of bread, meat and ale, and realized he was ravenous. More fully awake, he understood that the distinctive sounds that had called him from sleep meant their force was breaking camp, preparing to move out ... and doing so both swiftly and quietly. With a passing grimace, he idly scratched at the lingering rash that troubled him - profoundly glad that the fire of it was muted - and figured the General had decided to choose different ground for the coming, inevitable, confrontation with the British. Finally opening his eyes, he was confused to find that he wasn't in a tent but in a lean-to woven of pine boughs.

Frowning, he flipped away the blanket that covered him and crawled through the low portal to find the young man he assumed was the Corporal sitting outside on a log, waiting for him. Early dawn light burnished long curls and lit the wide, startlingly vivid blue eyes that met his. The suggestion of a smile, hesitant, uncertain, played over the generous mouth. And he'd been right the night before that this man seemed no ordinary soldier, garbed as he was in a soft buckskin sleeveless vest loosely laced over his hirsute chest, fringed leather leggings, and durable moccasins rather than the more crudely made boots or shoes of the regular foot soldier. A curious tiny wolf carving dangled from a hoop in his ear; and then Jim's eye was caught by the war club dangling from his belt. Just over a foot long, shaped from a single piece of carved, smooth wood, a bird's head and beak at one end for a solid grip, gradually widening to a sweeping curve topped with a deadly, fist-sized rounded ball, it was an impressive weapon. Altogether, except for the bright blue eyes, the kid looked a lot more like an Indian scout than a colonist, but his fine features and his skin, though a rich golden tan, were clearly those of a white man who'd spent endless hours under the sun.

"Good mornin' Captain. Bet you're hungry," he said cheerfully, and handed him a bread roll stuffed with meat and cheese. "Sorry, no fires this morning, so no hot food. And no tea or coffee, either, but the ale and the water will slake your thirst. And, I've got more of the same when you've finished this." Pausing, he gaze dipping away briefly, he shrugged and said, "You were shaky last night, like you hadn't eaten or slept for a fair bit of time, so I figured you'd want double rations today."

"Thanks," he replied as he took the proffered food to break his long and involuntary fast and had to restrain himself from wolfing it down. God, it tasted good, the cheese sharp and the wild turkey tender and fresh. After a long pull on the canteen, he accepted the second stuffed bread roll and settled on a rock to eat it at a more leisurely pace.

"What's your name, Corporal?" he asked between swallows.

"Sandburg, Captain. Blair Sandburg."

Nodding, thinking the name tallied with some of the comments he'd dimly heard the night before, he wondered what a Jew was doing dressed like an Indian. Idly, as he pondered the small mystery, he scratched his stubbled cheek - and realized neither the bites nor the rash tormented him. The maddening itch was nearly gone.

"What'd you put on my skin last night?" he asked curiously. "Whatever it was, worked like a charm."

Sandburg shifted as if he was nervous or uncomfortable, and his jaw tightened. "I used no witchcraft," he asserted with stiff, nearly reflexive defensiveness but, as if by a force of will, he visibly relaxed again. "Just some herbal mixtures that I learned from the Cherokee." Rising from the log, he secured their sleeping rolls, neatly wrapping and tying the canvas strips around the blankets.

"Really?" Jim rejoined, one brow arching as he shifted his gaze to the river, idly watching the sunlight's reflections dance on the water. "That why some of 'em call you the Medicine Man?"

Startled, Sandburg looked up from tying up the roll, gaping at him, and then nodded. "Yeah. I guess maybe you heard some comments last night when we crossed through the camp," he replied with a low, grim edge to his voice. "Lot of people mock or fear what they don't understand," he added, now sounding slightly defiant as he slung the tightly bound canvas roll over his shoulder. Swiftly, he packed the rest of his gear and some of what Jim recognized as his own into a sturdy canvas bag, which was also slung over his shoulder. The kid must have gone to his tent while he slept, to gather what he'd need in the days ahead: an extra pair of socks and linens, two cotton shirts, and a pair of cotton twill breeches.

"True enough," Jim agreed mildly. Looking back over his shoulder at the main camp, he asked, "What're the orders?"

"As you can see, we're moving out," the Corporal replied earnestly, with no tone of mockery about stating the obvious. "From what you told the General last night, it's clear the British outnumber us badly, so we're choosing the better part of valour and most of our forces are falling back toward Brooklyn Heights. General Alexander - Lord Stirling - has taken two regiments to try to hold the Gowanus Road. Word is, the five men guarding the Jamaica Pass have fallen to the enemy."

Nodding to himself, Jim reflected that Washington had little choice but to return to the safety of the batteries he'd established on the heights over the East River. But he frowned, thinking about the threat of the British Navy. Had the British General William Howe landed his full force or were there more back in New York? Was Howe's brother, Richard, the Admiral, lurking in the East River, ready to bombard them into submission while they fought off the redcoats? They needed information about the enemy's deployments, and they needed it urgently. Standing, he took a long pull of ale, emptying the mug, and then said briskly, "Thanks for the, uh, help last night, and the grub. But I guess it's time I earned my keep and set off ahead to scout our path of retreat."

"It'll take most of the day to get our men and supplies back to the Heights," Sandburg told him as he stuffed a coonskin cap into his pack and bent to pick up his musket, seemingly unfazed by the idea of an officer undertaking a duty more usually assigned to noncoms. "I think the General hopes the forest will slow down the British and make it harder to follow us. Not easy to move thousands of men through virgin growth." But his mouth twisted with the wordless acknowledgement that their own army faced the same challenge. Both men knew Washington would be hard-pressed to get his men to relative safety before the British were upon them.

Nodding wordlessly, Jim attached his powder horn to his belt and slipped his own musket over his shoulder before turning away. But he'd not taken many steps when he realized Sandburg was following him. Slowing, he looked over his shoulder and asked, "Where do you think you're going?"

"With you," the Corporal replied calmly with easy assurance. "The General's orders last night were very clear, sir. I'm to stick with you and give you whatever support you need - and," he carried on determinedly, "your eyes and skin are still irritated. You'll need more of my ointments before the sun goes down."

"Kid, er, Corporal, I work alone," Jim replied repressively. "I'm grateful for your help last night, but I'll be fine."

"You really want to bother the General right now? To get new orders?" Sandburg pushed.

His lips thinning, Jim snorted. "Just go back to your squad."

"I report directly to the General, sir," Sandburg retorted, holding his ground stubbornly. "My usual job is to fetch and carry, and write the occasional dispatch before delivering it - clearly, last night General Washington reassigned me to fetch and carry for you." Holding his arms wide and grinning impishly, he drawled, "I'm all yours, Captain."

Jim frowned, his gaze flickering away. He vaguely remembered having seen the Corporal on the fringes of the General's personal staff, and his gaze narrowed at the memory - he'd discounted the kid, thinking him an odd blue-eyed, lightly bronzed half-breed in camp to barter information for supplies, or perhaps a slave who saw to the General's personal needs. Clearly, he'd been wrong. Idly, he wondered where the kid had learned to read and write well enough to transcribe dispatches, as they weren't particularly common skills among the enlisted men. Rolling his eyes, Jim gave up the debate, and muttered, "Just see that you keep up - and try not to give our position away to any enemy scouts."

"I'll do my best, sir," the kid agreed cheerfully but, when Jim cast him a sharp look, he added with exaggerated solemnity, "to not attract unwanted or undue attention from the enemy."

"Uh huh," Ellison grunted; then turned away in a brisk lope to the northeast.

* * *

Skirting cleared acreage that had been turned into farmland, they kept to the trees. Occasionally, the Captain tossed a quick, evaluative glance at him, and a slight smile or nod of approval seemed to indicate he was pleased that Blair was able to shadow his steps with tireless, silent ease, revealing no strain in his steady pace that kept up with Ellison's longer and equally effortless strides. From time to time, Jim held up a hand for them to stop. Each time, and he cocked his head unconsciously as he listened to the sounds of the forest, and his gaze penetrated the murky depths. At regular intervals, he carved slashes in the trunks of trees, signals for those behind to follow, indicating the way ahead was clear. Though the thick foliage above them blocked most of the sunlight, dust motes danced in shafts of light that found the ground and, in places, the shadowed layers of leaves that carpeted the forest floor were dappled by the sun. But, despite being shaded by the ancient trees, the heat in the forest and the heavy humidity grew stifling as the sun climbed higher. Runnels of sweat streaked their faces and dampened their clothing, dehydrating them, so that they drank gratefully each time they happened upon a fast running, crystal clear brook, and took care to keep their canteens full.

A half step behind him and a bit to the side, Sandburg kept a close eye on his charge. He noted Ellison's behaviours when they stopped, the intense listening and the minute scrutiny of the forest. Chewing on his lip, he reflected on occasional, admiring comments the General had made about Captain Ellison: that he could 'see like an eagle' and 'hear like a fox'. That the man was 'uncanny' in following a trail, as if he could sniff out those he was following better than any bloodhound. But the General also harbored concerns for this man and, when he'd failed to return as anticipated days before, he'd fretted that 'Jim', as he called him, had fallen into one of his fits of stillness, in which he seemed totally unaware of his surroundings, and as unresponsive as a statue. Blair had thought these observations intriguing and was secretly delighted that he'd been assigned to Ellison, at least for now.

He found Captain Ellison to be a man of contradictions. He spoke like an educated, wealthy man, his accent of the north, perhaps Manhattan, but with tones of the Appalachian highlands like those acquired by explorers. His clothing was well made but plainer than that of most gentlemen, as if he had no interest in being a fashionable fop. He was direct, verging on arrogant in his manner and his way of giving orders, but he was also sensible, not bucking higher orders or insisting on his own way, so he wasn't particularly competitive or overbearing in petty ways. He'd been half dead when he'd arrived at the camp the night before and Blair had some sense of how much he'd been suffering from the rash that had gotten so bad that little pustules had erupted and been rubbed raw all over the man's body, yet he'd not complained. So, fiercely dedicated to his task, and to the General, and inclined to put his own needs behind those of his mission and larger priorities; a disciplined man, and a dedicated one. A man to be trusted, who was driven by commitment and integrity.

He was obviously a gentleman, as opposed to a warrior by nature and upbringing yet, in his way, a humble one - but he donned the warrior's role and manner as if it were a second skin, as if it were all he'd ever been. He wasn't an ordinary warrior, who fought by the side of comrades, drawing comfort and confidence from their collective numbers, but one who ranged out on his own, a scout checking the way forward, ensuring the safety of those who followed. Ellison looked to be in his late twenties, thirty maybe, whereas most of the recruits were only fifteen or sixteen ... or were well into their middle years. Blair suspected that, if his Captain were willing to take on a larger command responsibility, Washington would promote him to a much higher rank. But ... the Captain seemed happiest to be out on his own; so he wasn't a man, like some of their senior officers, who wanted power, privilege and influence as much, it sometimes seemed to Blair, as they wanted to win the war.

As the hours passed, Blair felt excitement build, a sense of anticipation and wonder growing in his chest and mind. Could it be? Could one such as he'd heard about with the Cherokee have grown to manhood within the embrace of a city? If so, how had he managed alone without the traditional support of a companion - or did he manage perfectly well? Those 'fits' the General described gave Blair pause and left him with a sense of anxiety about the Captain's vulnerability. Clearly, the General had no idea of what was happening in those long minutes, considering it an affliction like those that fell to the earth, convulsing and foaming at the mouth, confused once the fit had passed. But, apparently, while Ellison could be brought to his knees, as if in pain, by sudden sharp thunder, or the roar of cannon fire, he always shrugged off concern in minutes and seemed able to resume his normal peak level of functioning quickly. If Blair was right in his speculations - which were fast becoming certain conclusions - such episodes were far from being any kind of illness or mental aberration. Indeed, they were the hallmark of the guardians he'd heard tales about - guardians who needed companions to help them avoid such periods of still oblivion, bring them back when they occurred, and protect them while they were insensible.

He needed an opportunity to talk quietly with the Captain, to share his knowledge and his beliefs. But Ellison seemed a reticent man and, besides, they were fully occupied in seeking a route of retreat from the annihilation such a massive British force threatened. Quiet conversation in the near future seemed unlikely, even inappropriate. There simply wasn't time, given the greater need of the Continental Army to escape disaster. Still, when Ellison stopped to undertake what Blair was certain was a sensory scan of the world around them, he contrived to step closer and place a light hand on the other man's arm, to ground him with his sense of touch - a protective practice that he'd heard could stave off that odd tendency toward unnatural stillness. The first time he'd done so, Ellison had looked at him oddly, impatiently, but he'd explained that he was simply taking their brief respite from travel to examine the Captain's skin, to ensure he was healing well, and not in need of further ministrations. Jim's gaze had narrowed, but then he'd shrugged and turned his attention back to scanning their environment for threat.

When Blair judged from the direction of the shafts of light and the burden of heat upon them that the sun was reaching its zenith, his voice was nearly inaudible when he suggested a halt at the next stream they came to. He dug food from his pack - chunks of bread and cheese, and a small portion of what remained of his supply of wild turkey - and handed half to the Captain. "We need to keep our strength up," he remarked very quietly. Again Jim gave him that penetrating look of assessment, but he accepted the food with a nod and wolfed it down, so that they could continue on their way with little delay.

They couldn't have traveled for more than another hand-span of the sun's trip across the sky - the way most people without cumbersome clocks or expensive pocket watches gauged an hour of time - when Jim stopped dead, grabbed his arm and hauled him down into a tight crouch behind a hedge of thick wild blueberry bushes. Ellison lifted his index finger to his lips, a warning for absolute silence, and then his gaze slipped sideways as his head tilted. Gripping his arm, Blair could feel how tensely the man was concentrating to focus his ability to hear clearly. Then, again with a gesture to maintain absolute silence, Jim led him in a crouching lope to the west before again hunkering low to peer through the foliage and thickly growing tree trunks.

"The British," he whispered tightly into Blair's ear, and then motioned him to follow back the way they'd come. They ran a mile before Jim called a halt. "Thousands of British; must've circled around from behind us," he rasped, his expression harried. "They're creating a pincher movement, to trap our Army between them. There're too many. We'll be decimated, utterly destroyed."

Blair swallowed heavily, forcing away the fear the words spawned in his belly. "There must be something we can do," he whispered back. "The Army can't hold out forever even if they make it to Brooklyn Heights. We need to find a way off the island - and fast."

Jim stared at him, and then nodded soberly. "There may be a way," he grated urgently, pulling a ring that would have paid a King's ransom from his finger. "I want you to take this to the ferry dock west of here - there's a fishing village of maybe ten houses. Find a black man named Simon Banks. Tell him we need Colonel John Glover and his Marblehead Mariners to organize fishing boats, barges and rafts to urgently ferry the whole Army - men, horses, cannon - across the river. He'll need to send a messenger to Washington's Headquarters on Manhattan as quickly as possible. You'll find Simon on the dock loading barges for the farmers sending market goods into the city; he's a mountain of man, a few years older than I and he may be with another, older, black man, nearly as big, named Joel. Show Simon this ring and tell him I sent you, and that he's to get it to Colonel Glover - John will recognize it." Looking back the way they'd come, and then ahead where the Continental Army followed more slowly, miles back along the trail they'd forged, he shook his head. "I have to warn the General. We'll have to hold off the British for the rest of today and tomorrow - hopefully, John will organize our transport across the East River before the redcoats overrun us."

Turning his steely blue gaze upon Sandburg, he asked harshly, "Do you understand what you need to do? The importance of your task? The urgency?"

"Yes, sir, I do," he replied staunchly, slipping the ring into a leather pouch that hung from his belt.

"Then go; go as fast as you can. Whether or not the Continental Army survives is now in your hands."

Painfully conscious of the Captain's sense of urgency and impatience, Sandburg rummaged hurriedly in his backpack, drawing out two small, waxed-sealed ceramic bowls. Handing them to Jim, he instructed firmly, "The blue one is for your eyes - if the itch re-appears, rub a small amount on your eyelids. The plain one is for your skin - same thing. Use it when you notice the itch returning." Slipping his pack over his shoulder he said with solemn, solid, even reassuring confidence, "I'll meet you on the Heights later, sir, after dark - to confirm the completion of my mission." Blair hesitated a moment longer, his gaze searching the Captain's face, and then he blurted quickly, "And, uh, don't concentrate too long on just your hearing or ... or in looking at anything; or, if you do, do both at the same time."

With no more ado, he flipped the Captain a swift, brisk salute and then hared off to the west with a nimble, silent speed that impressed Ellison, his dark hair and leather clothing quickly merging with the shadows of the primordial forest. Briefly, his gaze narrowed in acute surprise at the last fast words, Jim watched him go, and then he set off in a steady run back toward his General and the ten thousand rag-tag town and countrymen who made up the core of the recently constituted Continental Army.

* * *

Blair slowed as he came to the small fishing village of a dozen or so clapboard cottages about ten miles north of Brooklyn Heights. Some of the buildings were meticulously maintained, gleaming with fresh white-wash, and made cheerful with flowers around their borders, while others were ramshackle and well-weathered, dreary-looking places. Four of the cottages stood separate from the others, and he assumed that Simon and others like him lived slightly apart from the white inhabitants. Moving onto the path that wound past the domiciles to the ferry landing beyond, he kept a watch for a large Negro and shortly spotted two such men laboring shirtless, their sweaty skin glistening like ebony in the heavy heat, loading bags of grain and baskets of produce bound for the city's markets onto a barge. Bearing Jim's instructions in mind, he approached the taller of the two big men and called out, "Simon Banks?"

The man straightened from the huge burlap sack he'd been about to lift to his shoulder. The gaze he fastened on Blair was astute and curious. Nodding, he asked, his voice a deep rumble, "And who might you be?"

"Corporal Blair Sandburg. Captain Ellison sent me to engage your help in mounting an evacuation of the Continental Army to the mainland. There are upwards of twenty-five thousand British redcoats and Hessians closing in on our forces, and we need to ensure the means of retreat tonight, or we'll be wiped out. Captain Ellison told me you'd help get word to Colonel John Glover, Commander of the Fourteenth Massachusetts Infantry, at the Army Headquarters on Manhattan," Blair reported in a fast flow of words that made the older man blink. Cautiously, with a glance over his shoulder to ensure no one else could see, he drew the ring from the small pouch on his belt. "Captain Ellison gave me this to confirm the urgency to the Colonel. He's gone to alert General Washington. The Army is falling back to Brooklyn Heights, where they'll hold off the enemy while they wait for relief."

Simon's eyes widened in astonishment, but he quickly straightened his shoulders and demanded, "How many men need to be moved across the river?"

"As many as ten thousand, not including the camp followers, along with supply wagons, horses and cannon," Blair told him. "Can you help us, sir?"

Amused by the honorific he'd never heard directed his way before, Banks smiled and nodded. "I'll do my best, young'un, er, Corporal." Raising his voice, he called sharply, "Joel - over here!"

Less than two minutes later, Simon and Joel took two skiffs, rowing them out toward the fishing boats on the river. Anxiously, Blair watched as they talked with the fishermen, and then the small boats hoisted their single sails and, catching the wind, moved off in different directions, one heading across the river, and the other moving with the current to the north. Simon and Joel then rowed to other little boats, and others still, until all had dispersed, moving up and down or across the mile-wide waterway. Only then did they return to shore.

Climbing out into water up to his knees, Simon hoisted the skiff well up onto the slanting, stony ground and then strode to where Blair waited. "Captain Ellison's message is on its way to Army Headquarters. Glover and his men might be playing at being infantry but his Marblehead Mariners are seamen through and through - and are the only ones who have a hope of pulling off this retreat. But even they can't do it alone. I've sent word up and down the river to fishermen who either support the revolution or just plain don't care much for the King an' all the men he sends over here needin' to be billeted and fed when there's scarce enough as it is; they'll soon report to Glover that they're able and ready to lend their boats and their skill to the effort."

Blair looked toward the Heights and tried to imagine the magnitude of the task before them. His gaze then raked the river. "Have you seen or heard anything about Admiral Howe and his warships?"

Grimly, the big man nodded. "I've heard tell that a mess of British gunboats, a hundred and thirty or more, are anchored at the mouth of the river." Shaking his head in begrudging awe at the size of an armada the like of which the world had never seen before, he added quietly, "Not sure why the Admiral is holding his forces back, but there're rumours that he's sympathetic to the colonists." Looking off upriver, he muttered, "Guess we'll soon know if the gossip has truth in it - but he can't risk being thought a traitor to his King. Nor will he abandon his brother to the fates."

Thunder rumbled in the distance and both men turned, listening intently as their gaze raked the sky, wondering if they'd heard an approaching storm or the deep-throated roar of cannon.

Glancing sideways at the older man, Sandburg asked tentatively, "You mind me asking how you know the Captain?"

"No, I don't mind you askin'," Simon replied with jovial irony, his expression enigmatic and his gaze distant as he studied the horizon, but a faint smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Blair wasn't sure if he was remembering the past fondly, or simply enjoying the right to keep his own counsel, of not having to reply simply because a white man had posed him a question. "Hope you don't mind if I don't say. Not right away, anyhow. Not 'til I know you a whole lot better'n I do now."

Blair's brows quirked with surprise, and then his eyes narrowed in thought. Nodding slowly, figuring the story maybe had something to do with slavery and aiding and abetting runaways - illegal to be a runaway, illegal to help one - he decided it was probably better if he didn't know the details. None of his business, really. Another distant rumble of thunder drew his gaze to the south and he scanned the clear sky with misgiving. Though the air was heavy and so hotly humid that his skin was slick with sweat and he could feel a storm, a big one, was coming, the far-off rumble had to be the sound of artillery.

Battle had been engaged.

"I need to make my way back to the Army," Blair stated solemnly, his steady voice masking the flutter of anxious fear he felt in his belly and the sudden dryness of his mouth as he contemplated running flat-out into the fiery, deadly maw of war. A sensible man would be running in the opposite direction. But, then, rarely had he ever been accused of being sensible. Besides, Captain Ellison would be waiting to hear that the message was being carried to Colonel Glover. Looking up at the man who loomed over him, he held out his hand. Banks quirked a brow but then grasped it, man to man. "Thank you for your help," Sandburg said simply as they briefly shook hands.

"I'll be along behind you, as soon as I've gotten word back from the Colonel, to tell the Captain the plan," Simon told him, warmth in his rich tones. "Keep your head down, son. I'll see you on the Heights."

Determined to hide his fear, Sandburg flashed a cocky grin as he turned away. Calling over his shoulder with a confidence he hoped would be prophetic, "I'll be there!" he broke into a ground-eating jog that swiftly took him back into the shadows of the forest, toward the thunder of the distant guns.

* * *

Flinching at the ear-shattering roar of artillery that belched flame and smoke with each blasted iron ball or mangle of deadly grape and chain, and the higher pitched cough and whine of bullets and shot from rifles and musketry, Jim crouched low to circle around the warring armies, intent upon reaching the flag that denoted the General's position on the field of battle. The Continental Army had turned to fight their enemy, and the formal battle lines were drawn up close together. The trained and experienced royals were pushing them back and back, and the patriots' only advantage was that they knew the land and could scramble for hollows or stands of timber as temporary, if inadequate, shields against the onslaught. The Patriots knew all too well that they were fighting a losing battle; they'd moved with all possible speed under fire, edging back toward the only safety that remained to them, high on the cliffs over the East River, behind fortified walls and their limited cannonry. The field was swirling with smoke, guttural screams of the wounded added to the chaos, and the air was thick with the smell of blood, gunpowder and the stench of fear. Overhead, unnoticed in the heat of battle, thick black clouds were gathering, and soon the crack and crash of real thunder rivaled the full-throated roar of the cannon.

Panting more from tension than exertion, Jim finally reached his commanding officer and called out over the chaotic noise that surrounded them. "General!" he cried urgently to get the older man's attention. When Washington whirled around at the sound of his voice, he hastened closer, reflexively ducking and pulling the General down as a cannon ball whined through the air, cutting dangerously close before exploding into the ground behind them, sending shrapnel flying in a deadly mist. Gripping Washington's shoulder, helping the man to stand, Jim reported bluntly, "There's a second column of at least eight to ten thousand redcoats moving toward us from the north. Howe's trying to catch us in a pincer, hoping to cut us off from retreat to the fortifications at Brooklyn Heights. They're not far behind me, sir."

"Damnation," Washington grunted, swallowing hard. No warrior, he felt nearly overwhelmed by the responsibility he carried on his shoulders. Why, he had half of the Continental Army with him on Long Island. If they were taken here, defeated, the revolution would be over before it had hardly begun. Though there was little choice left to him, he hesitated. He had to get as many of his men as he could to the relative security of the Heights, but running left a sour taste in his mouth. He'd waited weeks for this confrontation. His gaze narrowing against the heavy burn of smoke in the air, he looked over the field of battle and felt sick at how very many men were counting upon him to lead them to victory. He'd been a fool to lead them here, where they could be so easily surrounded and trapped. Closing his eyes briefly, he fervently hoped Divine Providence would smile upon them, or at least show mercy in sparing the lives of the gallant souls who followed him so bravely.

"I've sent word to Colonel Glover, sir," Jim told him, his voice tight with tension, as they retreated with the rest. "But John will need time to muster enough boats for an evacuation."

Washington turned to study him, his expression slipping from surprise to approval. "Good man," he said with warm approbation as he clapped Jim soundly on the shoulder. "If anyone can pull us out of the mouth of the British Lion, it's John Glover." His gaze again returning to the battlefield, he added, "But even his Mariners will need time to prepare. It's up to us to survive this day and night - and all of tomorrow as well, at least, as best we can."

"Yes, sir," Jim replied staunchly, though he swallowed hard at the prospect of holding off tens of thousands of skilled, well armed, well-supplied troops with men more used to plowing land, hunting for their tables or clerking in shops and offices in the city. They'd be lucky to not be massacred before the sun set on this desperate day.

Another cannonball whistled close overhead and again Jim tackled the General, pulling him out the line of fire and covering the older man's body with his own. The blast of the explosion shook the earth, and Jim felt molten fire sizzle through the flesh high on his left arm. His gut revolted and darkness swirled as the agony flashed scarlet behind his eyes. Desperately, gritting his teeth, locking his jaw, he fought off unconsciousness and shakily rolled off the General, onto his knees. Damnation, it hurt, hurt bad. Panting for breath, he fumbled for a handkerchief and worked it around his arm over the growing crimson stain. Washington, seeing he'd been injured, hastened to help him tie off the improvised dressing.

"I'll have someone help you to the surgeon's tent on the Heights," the General told him, his voice deep with concern.

But Jim thought of that bloody arena, more like an abattoir to his mind, than any kind of place of healing. "No," he rasped, shaking his head. "It's nothing. I'll be fine." He eased his left hand into his jacket above the last button to support his injured arm and focused on slowing his breathing. He'd just have to abide the pain.

Calling his aides close, Washington sent out immediate orders to retreat with all dispatch back to the fortified town. But, as he knew all too well, it was only a stopgap measure that would buy them little time. He didn't have the armament to last out a long siege. But, just then, the second British onslaught roared onto the field from the side, attacking with stunning, shocking surprise. It was too much for the untrained, ragtag army of volunteers and their lines broke as they panicked and ran. The aborted battle was a devastating introduction to the business of war, an experience that showed all on the field how unequal the colonials were to the challenge of facing the full might of the most powerful military force on the face of the earth.

* * *

Later, when they were safe behind the barricades, panting with exertion and terror, most of the men were heartily ashamed to have given way with pathetic cowardice rather than having waged a fighting retreat; disgusted that they had turned tail to run for their lives back to the fortified walls of Brooklyn Heights. Despair mingled with their still quaking fear as word drifted across the questionable safe ground beyond the pickets and fortifications, whispered despondently by some, shouted in rage by others. Rumours spread that Lord Stirling and two hundred and fifty of his top Maryland troops - who had staged a noble, if doomed, effort to hold back the British tide to give the remainder of his regiments time to escape through the swamp - had all been lost.

More than nine thousand men crowded into the town behind the walls. The civilians scurried for cover, the Loyalists amongst them cursing Patriot stupidity in bringing the threat of British reprisal upon them all. The soldiers hunkered down, expecting to have to fight the redcoats in the fields around the town and in the streets, certain their limited cannon could never stop a concerted attack by so many thousands of men ... for another ten thousand at least had appeared from the north. The ground below the Heights was thickly blanketed as far as the eye could see with red serge of the British troops, and the blue of the mercenaries who sported tall bronze helmets, and looked both foreign and frightening.

As Washington stared out over the ramparts at the massive army below, he shook his head. His men had broken and run, had lost faith in themselves. They had no hope now of triumphing over the British Army and the terrifyingly violent Hessian mercenaries that were intent upon suppressing them - even annihilating them, if necessary. When he thought of the British armada at his back, he had to repress a shudder. Was it all to end so soon? So ingloriously? Was this all a folly of pride that could not be sustained?

Expecting his force to be swiftly annihilated, Washington could scarcely believe his adversary paused to draw up cannon and to set his men to digging trenches. Apparently, Howe planned to lay siege rather than fight a costly battle through narrow, winding streets where the advantage of his numbers would be lost. His lips thinning, Washington nodded thoughtfully to himself. Made sense of a sort; Howe was no doubt hoping he would waste what little ammunition he had in his supplies, so that his force could be easily over-run on the morrow or, at the latest, the day after. Rubbing his mouth, he considered his options, none of which left him feeling hopeful, especially when he wondered where the British fleet was and when the massive gunboats would be at his back. Still, they needed to conserve their ammunition and supplies. The war was just beginning; if he and his men could survive this siege and somehow escape, he'd need ammunition to keep fighting. So, he sent out orders to hold fire until the enemy showed signs of attacking in force, and he posted snipers on the walls, to watch for any sneak attacks as the day darkened under the gathering storm.

* * *

Lightning flickered within the high bank of clouds overhead, setting off distant, threatening rumbles, and the wind was picking up, though the air remained scorchingly hot. Sandburg threaded through the forest, increasingly cautious and wary as the sounds of battle grew louder, fiercer. When he finally reached the end of the wild growth, his heart plummeted when he saw the British digging trenches between him and the fortified heights. He'd never make it across the open land. Retreating back into the shadows, he made his way to the cliffs and gingerly climbed down to follow narrow ledges, often little more than hand- or toe-holds, as he edged his way to the city walls over the river. He trembled, nearly paralyzed more than once by his abiding fear of heights but, whenever his gorge rose in his throat and he closed his eyes against treacherous dizziness, he imagined Captain Ellison waiting for him, watching, wondering what was taking him so long to report back, and he forced himself to seek another handhold, to keep moving precariously along the rock-face. Finally, finally, breathing hard, his heart pounding, he reached the tar-coated lane that ramped steeply up from the ferry dock below and scrambled quickly to the gate. Pounding on it, demanding entry, for the first time he was glad of the disparaging attention he'd received from the troops. He heard a lookout call mockingly that it was only the Medicine Man, the General's favourite, and to let him inside.

Nodding at the guard as he slipped past, he demanded to know the whereabouts of the General and was directed to the house where Washington had set up temporary headquarters. The privates on guard duty outside the entrance to the sturdy, two-story stone house also recognized him. Grudgingly, they stood aside to allow him entry, their lips thinning with aversion, whether for his Jewishness or his Indian garb he neither knew nor much cared. Inside, he followed the sound of voices to the parlor, where Washington was grimly receiving reports on the day's losses. Standing quietly in the entryway, he scanned the room and was relieved to see Captain Ellison in one corner, his face a flat, somber mask, though lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed him. To Sandburg, the older man looked as if he were in pain. Worried, he scanned the Captain's body, and quickly noted the bloodstained bandage binding a wound on his left tricep. Not wanting to intrude on the briefings taking place, eager to test one of his theories, he whispered very softly, "Captain Ellison?"

Immediately, Ellison's head lifted and steely blue eyes found his own. He jerked his head back at the hallway behind him and, nodding his understanding, the Captain quickly made his way around the periphery of the large room to join him in the corridor.

"What are our losses?" Blair asked, trepidation dark in his eyes.

Jim's voice was dry and harsh as he replied bitterly, "Dead, wounded, and captured? At least two thousand men - ten percent of our entire army."

Closing his eyes, Blair bowed his head. "Oh no," he murmured with genuine sorrow for those who had fallen and for the plight of the captured. Destined for British prison ships, their lot would be grim, if they even survived. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he lifted his gaze to Jim's. "Word has gone to Colonel Glover. And urgent requests for assistance have been sent up and down the river to fishermen and merchant men who may be inclined to render assistance."

Relieved, Jim leaned wearily against the wall behind him. "Good. John and his Mariners are our only hope," he rasped.

Eying the bloodied bandage, Sandburg asked, "How bad's your wound?"

Jim shrugged and looked away, but the slight movement brought a grimace of pain that spasmed and was quickly repressed. "It's fine," he muttered, then pushed away from the wall. "We have to advise the General that we need to develop plans for a swift, silent retreat." Pausing, he demanded, "What of the gunboats?"

"Last I heard, Admiral Howe was holding in the mouth of the river," Blair reported.

Jim frowned at that. It didn't make sense that the British hadn't pressed their advantage to crush them decisively and quickly. Earlier in the day, another British leader, Major General James Grant, had been slow to press his advantage, a hesitation that proved a godsend in terms of allowing the vast majority of the Patriot forces to reach the sanctuary of their fortifications. Even Howe was fighting cautiously, traditionally, out there digging trenches rather than simply sweeping over them. The timid use of overwhelming power was ... puzzling, as was the clear reliance on mercenaries, Hessians from Europe, when the British forces alone would have been more than sufficient to quell such a pathetically poorly armed and trained mob of rebels.

Pondering the odd, apparent reluctance to simply smash them into submission, Jim found himself reflecting on the British perspective on this war for independence. But he shrugged off his ruminations. There was no time at the moment for such luxury of philosophical meanderings. Resolutely, he strode back into the improvised war room and, when he caught the General's attention, he reported that Colonel Glover would, by now, be aware of their situation and be plotting a means to retrieve them.

An austere smile flickered over Washington's lips at the receipt of the first positive news of an otherwise devastating day. "Then we must make ready for him," he said stoutly. "But we must do it quietly, so that the British do not suspect our intent to slip out of their grasp, nor do we want to alert any Loyalists who might betray our plan. And we must still fend the enemy off if they decide to charge on the morrow."

A booming clap of thunder rattled the china on the buffet against the back wall, and Jim flinched, biting back a groan at the searing, sharp pain that drove like daggers through his ears into his skull. He swayed dizzily and Blair hastily reached out to steady him. "Permission to see to the Captain's wound," he said to the General and, receiving a nod and a wave of dismissal, he half-hauled a reluctant Ellison from the room.

"With all due respect, sir," he muttered fiercely, "there's a time and place to play hero - and this isn't it. You don't want to risk that wound festering."

Jim stiffened with instinctive ire at the rough, dictatorial tone, but the fierce glow in the dark blue eyes that were leveled at him stayed his tongue. The Corporal was right and he was being foolishly stubborn. In war, one needed to take advantage of unexpected respites to renew strength - to be able to fight again when the demand arose. Resistance bled from his muscles and he allowed Sandburg to pull him along the hallway and up the narrow, wooden staircase to the upper level. In one of the bedrooms, Blair found a pitcher filled with tepid water and a basin. Sandburg gave him a light push toward an elegantly brocaded chair, then dug in his knapsack for the supplies he needed, drawing out a handful of clean linen rags and several pouches of herbs.

Quickly, Blair soaked off the dirty bandage, minimizing the pull of cloth stuck by dried blood upon torn flesh. As he worked, he was pleased to see that all the puffiness was gone from Ellison's eyes, and the rash was so muted, it had all but disappeared. Noting the Captain's taut muscles and the rigid line of his jaw as he fought the pain of having his wounded arm handled, however gently, Sandburg frowned as he quickly but carefully cleaned the flesh wounds. Ugly deep gashes made by flying shrapnel cut through skin and muscle on the outside of his upper arm, but at least none had lodged in the wounds. "Do wounds or injuries normally pain you this much?" he asked softly, his gaze hooded as he concentrated on powdering the injury with herbs that would fight off infection before wrapping it again tightly with a clean rag.

The silence stretched between them until Blair wondered if he was going to get an answer. But, finally, Jim sighed heavily and then grated through gritted teeth. "No. But sometimes, it's like liquid fire. I can't explain why some are worse than others."

Hunkered down beside him, Blair finished tying off the fresh dressing before looking up. "I think I may have an idea about that, if you're interested," he offered carefully, uncertain of the Captain's reaction to ideas foreign to his culture.

"Do you now?" Jim grunted skeptically as he delicately fingered the bandage.

"Yes," Blair affirmed as he stood and washed his hands in the basin and dried them on a towel before returning his unused supplies to his pack. Avoiding Jim's eyes, he continued, "The Cherokee have legends about guardians, sometimes called sentinels, who had enhanced senses." In the silence that met his comment, he rolled up his clean rags and stuffed them into his bag and then carefully pulled the leather thongs on the pouches of his herbs before slipping them inside. "These guardians or sentinels could see farther, hear more clearly, smell and taste and touch with greater sensitivity than ordinary men or women. They watched for the approach of enemies, sought out game trails, were aware of changes in weather patterns before anyone else." Flicking a glance at Ellison, encouraged by the perplexed, thoughtful look on the older man's face, he said, "I watched you last night and today. And I've heard what the General and others say about you, that you can see like an eagle and hear like a fox - track like a wolfhound. I think ... I think you have senses that are more finely developed than the rest of us. And ... and," he continued, quickly now, "and I think sometimes you get lost or something in one sense or another, so that you're unaware of what's happening around you. I mean, I've heard that you have 'episodes' ...."

His voice trailed off when Ellison glared at him. "I'm not an Indian," he stated flatly.

"That's not the point," Blair countered. "In my own culture, there are similar stories of watchmen descended from the Gods, or God, I guess - angels, maybe, who mated with mortals, so their greater powers were, uh, passed along in their bloodlines." He shrugged and then asked pointedly, "You got a better explanation?"

Jim's lips thinned and he looked away. But he shook his head. "No," he muttered, sounding angry. "I don't."

Encouraged, marginally, as Ellison seemed only barely interested, Blair carried on determinedly. "I, uh, I was really interested in the stories and I kinda hounded the shaman to tell me more. Anyway, he said that these senses could be controlled, but the sentinel needed help - a ... a companion or comrade who watched his back, especially when he, well, or she, for that matter, as sometimes women were also born with these greater senses - anyway, when the sentinel was focusing on one sense in particular, to ensure they didn't get lost in it, or ambushed while vulnerable."

Frowning heavily, his tone reluctant, Jim echoed, "Controlled? How were the senses controlled? Mine ..." his voice faded, as if he found the confession difficult, but he rallied and went on, "mine are unpredictable. And ... and sometimes they're ... sometimes I hate them."

Blair rubbed his mouth and then moved across the room to again hunker down by Jim's side. "Maybe I could help you," he offered. "For example, you say the wound sears like fire, right?" When Jim nodded, he was encouraged to go on. "Okay, well, then, close your eyes and imagine pouring cold water on the flames, dousing them."

Ellison snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Hey, what can it hurt to try?" Sandburg cajoled. "C'mon. Lean back and close your eyes. Take a few deep slow breaths and then imagine drawing a cup of water from an icy river." Jim grimaced but complied, his shoulders and head leaning into the support of the high-backed padded chair. After a moment of quiet breathing, Blair touched his hand lightly and asked softly, "Can you picture the cup, the river? Filling it with icy cold water?"

"Yeah," Jim rasped with a bare nod.

"Good, that's good," Blair encouraged. "Now, imagine pouring a cupful of water over the fire in your arm, slowly, feeling the cold relief of it, feeling the heat of the fire lessen ...."

Only moments later, Jim's mouth gaped open as he blinked and stared disbelievingly at Blair. "It worked," he said, as if he wasn't sure he could trust what had just happened. "Why? How?"

"The mind is very powerful, Captain," Blair replied with a small smile. "We underestimate it, I think. Don't understand it very well. And we tend to ignore what isn't solid, concrete, what we can't see or touch. But I've seen shaman do some incredible things with the force of their minds. If you're, uh, willing to let me try, I think I can help with your other senses, too. Help you focus them, learn how to use them, instead of being used by them."

"What are you?" Ellison challenged then, drawing away instinctively. "Some kind of savage witchdoctor?"

Sandburg's expression flattened as he abruptly stood to cross the room and lean his back on the closed door. Crossing his arms defensively, he said hoarsely, "Now 'savage' isn't exactly polite, is it, sir? Especially when I'm doing my best to help you. And the word 'witch' has a bad connotation in our society. I'd really prefer if you didn't use it. This isn't black magic or anything evil. Just a ... a different form of logic." When Ellison continued to stare at him warily, he held out his hands. "C'mon, Captain. Your senses are natural, right? You were born with them. They're not some curse! So, if they're natural, it only makes sense that you can find ways to control them, use them effectively. You, uh, you already do that a lot as it is - going out to scout because you _know_ you can see and hear better than most everyone else!"

When Jim's gaze dropped away and he seemed to tighten up, Sandburg asked with a note of understanding incredulity, "You don't think you're some kind of warlock, do you? Or that this really is a curse?" When Jim flinched, Blair strode across the room to drop to one knee beside him, instinctively reaching out to grip his wrist reassuringly. "Trust me, Captain. You're not cursed and you're not a witch. Your senses are natural, a gift." More forcefully, he added compellingly, "And we _need_ your gift right now. We need _every_ advantage we've got to try to win our freedom from the British. You give us an edge, Jim, er, Captain. A unique, incredibly valuable edge. Without you, the British would have overrun us and this rebellion would already be over. You know that's true!"

A muscle rippled along Jim's pale, stubbled jaw, and then he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Blair's eyes. "You really believe that, don't you? And you believe you can help me?"

"Yeah, I do, if you'll let me," he replied with naked solemnity.

Swallowing hard, Jim asked huskily, "How?"

Giving him a crooked smile, Sandburg stood and scratched his cheek. "Well, first, we need to get a handle on the strength of your senses, so we can figure out what your limits are. And then we need to figure out mental exercises, like the cup of icy water, to modify them, pull them back when the input is too much - like when you flinch at loud noises, like the crack of thunder. We need to muffle your hearing to protect your ears from too much or too sudden loud noise."

"Like tying a blanket over my head," Jim muttered disgustedly.

"Not literally, but, yeah, symbolically, maybe," Blair agreed. "I know it sounds weird, but I think we can work this out, if we try."

Jim rubbed a hand over his mouth and then sighed heavily before nodding reluctantly. "Alright," he allowed, in the tones of man who feels cornered and has little choice. "Let's try."

"Thank you," Blair replied with earnest humility. "I'll do my best, you know? To help you. To not let you down."

Studying him thoughtfully, Jim asked, "Why? Why are you so keen to help me?"

Sitting back on his haunches, his expression utterly candid, Blair replied, "Because you're special, sir. Because it's an honour to help you as much as I can." He hesitated and then added soberly, "And because your skills might make a serious, invaluable difference between winning and losing this war."

Quirking a brow, Jim chewed on his lip as his gaze shifted away, and he looked profoundly unconvinced. Blair couldn't help but read the bleak expression of uncertainty, even doubt. "We'll take it a day at a time," he encouraged. "Every minute we have free to work on this, we will. I think you'll be surprised at how fast you'll learn to use your senses so that you can rely on them and not just be plagued by them."

"I hope so, Corporal," Jim replied distantly. "I really hope you're right."

Eying him, Blair shook his head. "You're exhausted. You had hardly any sleep last night and just about none for several nights before that. And your rash is starting to look angry again." Taking the liberty of rifling in the pouch on Ellison's belt, he ignored the other man's instinctive tendency to pull away, and drew out the small pots of medicine he'd given the Captain earlier that afternoon. Opening them, he dabbed lotion on his fingertips and reached to matter-of-factly lightly coat Jim's eyelids. And then he said, "Let's get your shirt and breeches off so I can treat your skin."

Ellison began to object, but Blair overrode him. "We have the time now - there's a lull in the fighting. We need to take advantage of it."

Huffing a sigh, Jim nodded and began to undo the fastenings of his vest, and then of his shirt. Blair eased off his jacket and then the other layers, and helped him shuck his breeches. His touch as impersonal as a surgeon's, he quickly dabbed the herbal unguent on areas of inflamed skin, and then assisted Jim back into his clothing. Glancing at the bed, he suggested, "You might want to get a bit of sleep while you can. I'll go back downstairs to see what's happening, and I'll come get you if the General needs you."

Too weary to pretend he wasn't aching with exhaustion to a man who wasn't shy about calling him on his stubbornness, beginning to realize that Sandburg seemed, somehow, to see past all his defences, he succumbed to the encouragement and allowed the Corporal to help him to the bed, and to ease down on it.

"Make sure you come for me immediately, if the need arises," he muttered with the ill humour of a man who resented his own weakness.

"I promise," Blair vowed. "Rest, Captain," he urged, his voice seeming to fade into the distance. "Sleep if you can."

Jim grunted a final protest of resistance, but he closed his eyes - and was asleep before he drew another breath.

Blair watched him briefly, a fond smile gracing his lips as he lifted the blanket from the far side of the bed and tenderly draped it over his guardian, his sentinel. And then he quietly padded out of the room, drawing the door closed behind him. Hurrying down the steps, he wondered if he'd have to encourage the General to also take some much-needed rest. Shaking his head bemusedly, he reflected on the fact that the very strength of these extraordinary men was also their weakness. They never seemed to know when to let go, if only momentarily, to replenish their strength for the battles to come. But then he thought that it was probably because, as wealthy gentlemen of the colonies, they'd not fought many real battles before, life and death battles, and didn't know how to shepherd their energy. Well, he sighed, to himself as he crossed the hall and slipped into the war room, they'd learn. They'd have to learn or they wouldn't survive.

* * *

The wind picked up after sunset and, though the stone house was sturdy, the shutters rattled and slammed and the rush of air howled eerily like a chorus of banshees, but still the rain did not come. The townspeople huddled in their homes, fearful of what the dawn would bring when the armed might of the British rushed the fortifications and wreaked their wrath upon the upstart colonials. Some, loyal to the King, cursed the foolhardiness of the Continental Congress and despised the insurgents; others, sympathetic to the revolution prayed that their boys would somehow be saved to fight for their collective freedom and futures. Tents were pitched on every available spot of land and in the common; soldiers huddled against buildings along the streets and alleys, nervously gripping their weapons with white-knuckled anxiety, only able to dowse fitfully, if they were able to sleep at all. Sentries patrolled the walls, staring past the pickets and the men crouched behind as the first line of defence, into the darkness, frightened that the heavy clouds that blocked all light from moon and stars would shield the approach of the enemy. Blinking against the grit flung into their eyes by the wild, hot wind, they muttered curses and imagined that they understood what it was like to be blind. And the howl of the damned wind left them deaf as well, leaving them with no hope of hearing the scrape of boots on stone or the jangle of chain, or the stamp of horses' hooves.

Officers roamed the town and the heights, reassuring their men as best they could, doing their best to hide their own fear, alert, even jovial, in spare moments, to lighten the tension that consumed the soldiers, wearing at their morale, sapping their energy and hope. Men sweated in the relentless, thick heat of the night and scratched mosquito bites with absentminded irritation and gut-twisting anxiety. No one amongst them could be certain they'd still be breathing when the next night fell. But despite their fear, their near hopeless belief that they were trapped on the heights with no escape, their terrible certainty that they could not repulse the overwhelming numbers against them, none whined or bitched about their plight. Though many gripped a token from a wife or mother or sweetheart, a scrap of ribbon or a pewter heart, they didn't speak of the homes they'd left behind and might never again see. The clowns amongst them cracked jokes, albeit nervously. Some hummed or sang softly, scarcely more than a whisper of sound but comforting to those around them. Others felt fury at their own inadequacy to meet the challenge, and such rage they could barely speak, borne of fear for their comrades, brothers and friends, who had been overtaken by the British, not knowing if they were alive or dead, not sure which would be worse, for to be taken captive and sent to the prison ships was a fate to be feared more than death.

So they were committed, when the time came, to fight with all they had to the last breath, taking as many redcoats and savage Hessians as they could to hell with them.

The wind grew ever more frenzied as the dark hours wore on, their passing marked only by the low tolling of a church bell somewhere near the centre of town. Lightning flickered in the banked clouds above, the brightness blinding after the unrelenting dark. Thunder rumbled threateningly, and then - just after the twelve hollow clongs marking the midnight hour and the start of the twenty-eighth day of August - a massive streak of lightning split the sky and the air cracked with a heart-stopping bang as the storm finally broke. Rain fell upon them as if the rivers of heaven had opened to cascade in a solid wall of water upon the earth.

In an effort to keep dry, soldiers scrambled to stuff their powder horns into their shirts and to arrange makeshift canvas shelters with their bedrolls but, in seconds, they were drenched to the skin. The torrents of rain were bitterly icy after the stifling heat of the day and evening, so they huddled miserably, shivering and teeth chattering, bent over their muskets and rifles, wondering if their lot in life could ever get worse and desperately afraid it could. Cobblestones became slick and slippery underfoot and then the shallow ditches filled, becoming roiling, rushing streams around their feet and ankles. Earthen alleys turned into morasses of mud and refuse.

The citizenry that supported the Continental Army and the dream of freedom from the whims of King George and a distant Parliament, stoked their stoves and boiled water and herbs for tea, carrying mugs and blankets out to the men closest to their homes, bringing some measure of relief and comfort.

The bell tolled again and again as the hours dragged past, edging toward dawn. But the storm didn't let up. The pelting rain stung their faces, washing away sweat and the grime of living off the land, leaving them blue with cold. Lightning flared through the night and the thunder rolled almost continuously, deafening in its fury. They envied the British camped below, snug in their tents, sleeping with no worries about sodden gunpowder. Grimly, they awaited the morn and the battle to come; some smiled like wolves as they imagined the redcoats having to slog through the mud up to the Heights, exhausting themselves before they ever stormed the barricades. Cold and wet they might be, but they would be fighting on their home ground, battling for their families, for a better life, not simply for the monthly stipend of the professional soldier. They might die, but it would be for something they fiercely believed in. They wondered what the redcoats and their Hessian mercenary comrades believed in. Wondered why they'd come across the sea to fight and kill men who only wanted to be free.

* * *

Given leave by the General to retire hours before, Blair had scavenged bread, cold meat, cheese and ale from the kitchen before returning to the room he'd appropriated for Captain Ellison. He left the tray of food on the bureau and, exhausted, had shaken open his bedroll onto the floor next to the bed. Stretching out upon it, he was asleep almost immediately, and not even the wail of the wind or the banging of shutters had been enough to rouse either man in the first hours of darkness.

But a resounding sharp crack of thunder that sounded as if the house was splitting in two woke them both, shocking them into rising before they were even fully alert, each reaching for his weapon, thinking the battle had recommenced. But the flaring lightning, the rattle of rain on the roof and the next deep rumble of thunder released their tension; both shrugged to loosen shoulders, a bit embarrassed to have been off-balance and unaware when they'd first wakened.

Blair heard the tramp of feet in the hallway and on the stairs, and muffled voices. Another flash of lightning allowed him to see Ellison and he noted the other man had his head cocked, listening even as he flinched against the next explosive crash of thunder.

"Easy, sir," he cautioned softly. "You'll blow out your ears if you try to hear past this racket." Moving across the room, he drew flint from his pocket and struck a spark to light the lantern on the table under the window. "After I've checked your dressing, there's food, and ale, if you're hungry," he added, gesturing at the tray across the spacious chamber.

Jim scraped a hand over his face and nodded, but another clap of thunder directly overhead had him doubled over in obvious agony on the side of the bed, his hands pressed over his ears. Blair hastened to him, and dropped to one knee beside him. Instinctively, he reached out to lightly grip Ellison's arm reassuringly. "Dampen your hearing," he insisted urgently, though he kept his voice low and mellow, careful not to add to the man's torment.

His eyes pressed closed, humiliated by his weakness, angered by it, Jim grated harshly, "How, dammit!"

At a loss, Blair gaped at him, and then his gaze darted around the room in search of inspiration. "Like a lantern," he said, focusing on the flame he'd just lit. "Picture the lantern, the wick - imagine the noise is the flame, burning too high and too hot." He waited a beat, his eyes again upon Jim, and he frowned at the impatience on Ellison's face. "Trust me. Picture the flame, the lantern. You can do this. You can turn it down, until it's just barely glowing and ... and as you turn it down, your ... your hearing will be less sharp, will become muffled, so the noise doesn't hurt."

Another blast of thunder rumbled over the house and Jim flinched, curled tighter as if trying to crawl into himself. Desperate, he pictured the flame, the wick, imagined himself turning it down, lower and lower, and then he panted with relief. Blinking his eyes open, astonishment written on his features, he focused on Sandburg crouched by his side. "It worked," he murmured in amazement - having decided the earlier reduction of pain in his shoulder had been a fluke - and then he smiled with unconscious joy at what seemed to him to be a miracle of sorts. "It worked!"

Smiling in return, infinitely glad that his hastily conceived idea had proven effective, Blair patted his arm and then stood to move away a pace. "Good," he said simply. "You did real good, sir." Swiftly, he checked Jim's wounds and, satisfied that they appeared clean with no trace of infection, he re-bandaged the arm. Again, he gestured at the food he'd brought. "Now - you feel like having something to eat?"

"Yeah," Jim agreed, his gaze flickering over the younger man, an expression of gratitude lighting his eyes at the unexpected solicitude. "Yeah, I'm starving." He rose and broke open a roll, stuffing it with a slab of beef and cheese. "What about you? Aren't you hungry?" he asked, gesturing to the laden plate that held more sustenance than he needed.

"Yes, sir, thank you," Blair replied eagerly, as he moved to stand beside the Captain and helped himself to the simple meal. He poured the pitcher of ale into two mugs, and for the next few minutes they ate and drank in quiet contentment.

While they ate, Jim studied the younger man, his expression thoughtful, and Blair tried to pretend he didn't notice the scrutiny. But all the same, he was inordinately pleased to note that the distant wariness in the older man's eyes had given way to speculation and tentative warmth. And there was a slight, bemused smile on the Captain's lips that suggested the man wasn't entirely sure why Blair was thanking him for being offered food that Sandburg had provided, or giving him all the credit for having been able to gain some mastery over his mysterious and aggravating sense of hearing. For all his probable wealth, he seemed a humble man, unused and unwilling to take credit he'd not earned.

When the laden plate held little more than crumbs and the last of the ale was in their mugs, aware that Jim was only using his right arm, Blair asked solicitously, "How's the wound, sir?"

The warmth in Jim's eyes flattened as he turned away and grunted, "It's fine."

"Meaning it's hurting like the blazes again, right?" Sandburg challenged with a light, matter-of-fact tone.

Cool blue eyes flashed and the chiseled jaw tightened stubbornly, but then Jim relented and nodded. "Yeah, exactly," he admitted ruefully.

"Maybe you need to pour some cool water from that imaginary cup over your arm to ease the heat of the pain," Sandburg suggested with a slight, uncertain grin.

Nodding, Jim bowed his head and closed his eyes - and Blair could see his taut shoulders visibly relax as the pain of the wound eased. His grin widened and he murmured with undisguised admiration, "You're a wonder, sir. How quickly you've gotten the hang of it. You'll be marshalling your senses to your will in no time at all!"

Again Ellison swept him with an enigmatic look, but simply shrugged and moved to the window to look out at the sheets of rain that lashed the thick glass. "I need to get out there," he muttered. "Walk the walls; make sure the men are managing in this muck."

Sandburg straightened the counterpane of the bed and gathered up their gear while Jim drew on his vest, coat and tri-cornered hat. He handed the Captain his weapon and slung his own musket over his shoulder after he stacked the bedrolls in the corner. Jim noted his swift economy of motion and evident readiness to go along and seemed about to protest that his attendance wasn't required, but then he just nodded to himself and led the way out of the room.

They clomped down the stairs and Jim advised the guard outside the war room that he was going to do a circuit of the town, in case the General wondered where he was, and they'd be back in an hour or so. The soldier nodded, and they strode across the foyer and out the solid door into the full blast of wind and rain. Their shoulders hunched reflexively and their heads bowed under the onslaught as they turned toward the fortified walls. But they'd only gone a few steps when they were hailed from behind.

"Captain Ellison, sir!" a soldier called as he jogged through puddles and nearly slipped on the cobblestones in his haste to reach them. "There's a big Negro asking for you at the gate to the ferry road. Says his name is Simon, and that you're expecting him and the other one with him, sir."

"As I surely am, private," Jim called back. "Thank you." With a slap of approval on the man's shoulder, he broke into a fast jog, Blair dogging his heels, along the lane and around the corner into the wider street that led down to the river.

In minutes, they'd reached the double-sided, wide wooden gate that was barred for the night. A smaller door was cut into the wall, and Jim hailed the sentry standing watch. "Let Simon and his companion inside!"

"Aye, sir," the man acknowledged with a sketchy salute before shoving the door open against the muddy track beyond, and two large men as black as the night hurried past him into the fortified town.

"Simon, Joel, I am glad to see you," Jim welcomed his old friends. "The two of you look like very large drowned rats!"

Smiling crookedly, Banks chuckled. "Can't say as you and the young'un look a long sight drier," he rumbled as he swept rain from his face.

"You've heard from Colonel Glover?" Jim pressed, eager for some good news.

"Uh huh," Simon grunted in reply, sobering as he straightened.

Jim gestured them away from the gate, and led them some distance away so that they could talk without being overheard. "He's coming?" he asked but, sure of the answer, demanded, "When?"

"He'll have his forces in order, including the volunteer fishermen who are lending their boats, and the bargemen, by midday on the twenty-ninth," Simon reported, keeping his voice low as the five men crowded close together. "Providing the British gunboats don't block the river," he added starkly.

His head bowed, Jim chewed on his lip and nodded. "Almost two full days from now," he murmured, more to himself than the others. Looking up and around at the town, his expression guarded, he nodded again. "Come on. We need to tell the General - and you men need to get some good hot tea into you, to warm you up."

"Tea?" Joel echoed, a comically plaintive note in his voice. "Some ale wouldn't go amiss."

Smiling then, Ellison winked. "Then ale it is. You've brought good news and deserve a suitable reward for your labours."

Together, they turned and strode swiftly through the heavy rain, back along the street through the town, their boots splashing through muddy puddles.

Trailing at the rear of their little parade, Blair reflected upon the easiness between Captain Ellison and the others. Friendship between whites and blacks wasn't completely unheard of, but nor was it at all common. Once again, his curiousity was aroused and he wondered at the history these men shared; wondered, as well, if they'd ever trust him enough to share the details, or widen their circle to include him.

Once back at the house, dripping wet so that puddles gathered at their feet on the flagstone floor, Jim sought and was granted immediate entry to the General's presence. Inside the room, they found a fire burning brightly in the grate and candles and lanterns chasing the shadows into corners. Washington sat behind a desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up and, absent the wig, his fine hair in disarray, as if, like Jim and Blair, he'd only recently risen from his bed. He looked up from notes he was making as they entered, his high-browed aristocratic face lined with fatigue.

"Sir," Jim began with crisp brevity, "I wish to present to you Simon Banks and Joel Taggart, old and very good friends I'd recommend to you. They've brought word that Colonel Glover will be ready to ferry the Army across the East River the afternoon of the twenty-ninth. His Marblehead Mariners will be supported by volunteer fishermen and bargemen from along the river."

Warmth glinted in the General's intelligent eyes as he wordlessly acknowledged the messengers with an austere, slight nod. "Well, then," he replied, his voice firm, "we'll have to hold off General Howe and his forces until he can get here." His gaze lifted into the distance, and he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "And we'll need to prepare, to be ready to move expeditiously when the time comes, but without giving the game away." Returning his sharp gaze to Simon, he demanded, "He'll be prepared to take us all - and our horses, cannon, wagons and supplies?"

"That's the plan, sir," Simon replied with formal dignity. Swallowing, he felt compelled to add, "Though Admiral Howe might have something to say about it. General Howe, too, for that matter."

"Yes, yes, you're quite right," Washington allowed, a frown furrowing his brow. "Is the Admiral still anchoring his armada in the mouth of the river?"

"So far as we know," Banks confirmed soberly. "And with the wind the way it is, they'll not be moving this night at least."

Again Washington nodded thoughtfully. The East was a narrow, relatively shallow, fast-moving river and the wind whipped up dangerous currents and waves that could soon dash heavy ships under sail against the rocks or ground them on treacherous sandbars. "Go, dry yourselves off, get some nourishment and rest," he directed. "We're safe enough from the enemy so long as this storm lasts." As they turned toward the door, he added meaningfully, "And hope that this storm lasts for the next two days." When they nodded in solemn agreement, he smiled. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said with rare warm courtesy from an aristocrat toward men of their colour, "for alerting Colonel Glover to our need, and for bringing word of his plans to us. When we leave this island, if you wish to accompany us, I'd be glad to offer you transport."

"Thank you, sir," Simon replied gratefully on behalf of himself and Joel. "We'd sure appreciate a ride across the river." Looking away, he hesitated, then faced the General squarely as he added, "I'm sure you know the British are offering freedom to any slaves that join their cause. But we're freemen, and this is our home, too. Given the chance, we'd be honoured to serve with you, General."

"Then serve you shall," Washington returned stoutly. "I've need of all the good men I can get - there are far more of them than us, I'm afraid. And they're better equipped. Better trained. But if I didn't believe we could prevail, I wouldn't have accepted this command. If we persevere, we will win. We must. As you say, this is our home and our future. We dare not fail. Captain Ellison, I assign these men to your command. Equip them and award their ranks in accordance with their skills and experience."

"Yes, sir," Jim acknowledged readily, while the others regarded Washington solemnly, nodding in general agreement with his sentiments - but they all knew they had to first hold back the horde of British and Hessian soldiers for two days, and then get whatever still remained of the Army safely off Long Island or the war could well be lost before it had scarcely begun.

In the circumstances, hoping for the violent storm's continuation seemed the least they could do for short term success, let alone survival.

* * *

Once they'd gotten Simon and the others settled for the night in the sturdy, capacious stable behind the house, Jim and Blair once again set out to make their rounds of the town and to walk the perimeter of the barricades.

Jim was silent for several minutes and seemed preoccupied until he abruptly turned to Blair and demanded, "Would you take orders from a black man?"

"Depends on the man," Sandburg replied calmly. "From what I've seen of Simon, I'm assuming he warrants at least a sergeant's rating, and maybe Joel does, too. They seem solid and very intelligent. So, if you're asking if I mind if they outrank me, then no, I don't." Blair shrugged and looked away. "Captain, I don't know these men; you do. I will support your decisions on the matter. But that's not what you're asking me, is it? You're asking if I can serve with black-skinned men, let alone take orders from one or more of them." Lifting his gaze to Jim's, he stated earnestly, "I'm Jewish, sir, so some see me as a Christ-killer or eater of babies. I was born a bastard and some say that makes my mother a whore - which makes me trash by definition. I grew to be a man with the Cherokee, and you don't need to be told how folks feel about Indians." Waving a hand to encompass the town and the soldiers camped within its walls, he went on with low, fierce candour, "There are few who have much use for me, many who despise me on sight. I know right well what prejudice and blind hatred are and I don't hold with it. You can't tell who a man is or what he stands for by the colour of his skin or the name he was born with; takes time to learn another's soul and heart." He swallowed and visibly took a grip on his emotion. "But from what I've seen of them, they seem to be good, brave, sensible men, and besides, it's clear you trust them and that tells me a lot right there. I trust your judgment, sir, and I'll be glad to serve with them under your command." He paused and peered through the heavy downpour, and then added with a sad shrug and the helpless tone of a man who knew what it was to be judged unfairly, "You might be as well to ask them how comfortable they are about serving with me."

Taken aback by the small, bitterly blurted speech, more by the flood of personal information and taut emotion, Jim blinked. For a moment, he was utterly disconcerted, not knowing what to say and they stood in silence in the rain. But when Blair flicked a wary look at him, as if afraid he'd said far too much before his expression closed and he turned away, Jim felt a twist in his gut and a compulsion to somehow reassure the kid. Looping an arm around Blair's shoulders to move him along the narrow, dark street, he said meaningfully, "They're not the only good, brave and stalwart men under my command, Chief."

But Sandburg stiffened and pulled away. "Chief?" he challenged with a flash of disdain.

"Whoa," Jim exclaimed, gripping his shoulder to keep him from retreating further. "I didn't mean ... I meant that ..." he stammered, belatedly realizing that Blair must have thought it a reference to his life with the Cherokee. There was profound disappointment and no little bitterness in the fiery blue eyes that held his own. Swallowing, he continued hastily, "I meant nothing disparaging, Blair. If anything, given how you're showing me how to handle my senses, the way you helped me when I stumbled back into camp - was it only yesterday night? I meant ... hell, I don't know what I meant. I was trying to say I respect you, that's all."

Sandburg held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes, and then he looked away and nodded, the tension in his body easing as he accepted no slight had been intended. His brow furrowed as he thought about what Jim had said. Not really sure, given Ellison's rank, he asked, "How many men do serve under your command, sir?" Most captains would lead at least a company and for all Blair knew, Ellison did as well.

"Three, corporal," Jim replied, a grin twitching his lips. "Three good, brave, sensible men."

A small smile played over Blair's lips, and Jim saw a faint blush creep over the sun-bronzed, stubbled cheeks. Bobbing his head in a paroxysm of embarrassed humility, he seemed gratified but also off-balance, as if he was unsure of how to respond to the unexpected and unstinting praise. "Thank you, sir," he murmured softly.

Despite the blasting wind and pelting rain that soaked him clean through and chilled him to the bone, Jim felt a surge of affection for the kid; buoyed by sudden optimism, he smiled broadly. John Glover and his men would ensure their retreat from what might have been a certain, devastating defeat and now he had a small but skilled team of trackers and scouts to work with him in supporting Washington's command of the Continental Army. Though he was well aware of the prejudices that most of society held against his men, their roles would keep them separate and away from the main force most of the time, which suited him just fine. He'd take the forests over the stench and noise of the camp any day and be glad of the freedom of movement, free of oversight and the endless orders of superior officers. He gave Blair a comradely slap on the shoulder before again taking the lead on their informal patrol of Brooklyn Heights.

When they reached the wooden barricades, Jim found a vantage point to look down upon the enemy. With Blair standing close by his side, he squinted into the darkness, blinking frequently against the driving rain. Gripping the brim of his hat, he pulled it low over his brow to shield his eyes from sudden bursts of lightning, and studied the massive encampment below. He could see sentries patrolling but detected no hint of any sneak advance. The rain and wind, the runnels of water on rock and the mud were keeping the British undercover, at least for now.

Shaking his head, he felt a hollow sense of awe at the might of the forces arrayed against them. "There have to be twenty-five, maybe as many as thirty thousand men down there," he muttered under his breath. The magnitude of the challenge before them, the overwhelming odds against the ill-prepared and poorly equipped revolutionary army dampened his earlier sense of optimism and mild euphoria. Truly, they were embarking upon a venture that held marginal hope of success, despite the General's belief they had a legitimate chance of winning this war. Turning, he looked back over the town, the bleak darkness no barrier to his ability to see men hunched together, crowding streets and lanes, huddled stoically against the elements, shivering and afraid of what the morrow would bring. Close by, a barn had been commandeered for the wounded and errant gusts of wind brought the stench of blood and human waste, and he sighed. They'd lost over a thousand men that day and had no way of knowing how many of those had survived to be taken prisoner.

And the war was only just beginning.

"The General's right," he grunted as they left the fortifications and strode back into the town. "We better hope like hell that it keeps raining."

* * *

Dawn, when it came, was dismal, gray and sopping wet. The storm's fury hadn't abated and the wind continued to churn up waves and dangerous currents on the East River, holding Admiral Howe and his one hundred and thirty gunboats at bay. Though the colonials kept a close watch on the British forces covering the flanks of the hills and the plain below, it seemed the redcoats were content to remain under the shelter of their tents and simply lay siege to the town until the storm blew past.

Eagerly grabbing the respite from battle provided by the inclement weather, Washington gathered his senior offices and logisticians to hammer out the tactics of moving ten thousand men, along with horses, cannon and supply wagons while simultaneously fighting a rearguard action against a force that outnumbered them by a margin of more than two to one. If the British ships blocked the river ... well, then all would be lost.

Sighing, the General got up to pace while his subordinates debated options in low voices. Pausing to stare into the fire under the heavy oak mantel, he struggled with his personal sense of incompetence, his fear of being unequal to the responsibility he'd freely accepted. Bleakly, as he listened to the rain drum on the window and the rattle of wind in the trees beyond the wall, he wondered if he'd been a fool, if they were all fools to believe they had any hope of triumphing over the most powerful military on the face of the earth. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his tense shoulders. His jaw tightened and he chastised himself for his morose thoughts. Out in the streets, in the lanes and alleys, on the battlements, there were nearly ten thousand men who relied upon his leadership and trusted him to make the right decisions so that if their blood was spilled, it would not be for nothing. His back to his senior officers, he listened to their discussion, not so much to the words but the tones, and he heard impatience and frustration, uncertainty. But they grappled with the problems before them with utter sincerity and a commitment to do their best. Still, it was clear, none of them could envision any escape without suffering heavy losses - losses they could ill afford whether in men or armament - but an embattled retreat, they all seemed to agree, would be disastrous. Grimly, unwillingly, they were doing their best to come to grips with the terrible facts of their beleaguered situation.

"So ..." he pondered aloud as he slowly turned to face them, "we can't afford to fight our way out."

They looked askance at him, confusion on their faces. What other choice was there?

"Battles are fought in daylight," he went on thoughtfully. "Otherwise, it's chaos and we end up killing our own in the confusion." They nodded their agreement of this obvious assessment.

"Therefore, we should retreat under cover of darkness, while the enemy sleeps," he said then, bluntly. "If we're well prepared, muffle hooves and wheels with rags and ensure axles are well-greased, if we move in silence - we might even slip past ships anchored in the river."

The men before him stirred, straightening in their chairs, as the idea lent hope and energy to their demeanors. He could see thoughts skimming across their faces, in the looks they exchanged with one another. There was time to prepare - the unceasing rain gave them that opportunity. One by one, they nodded as the idea took hold.

"We'll need to get word to Colonel Glover," one of his subordinates observed.

"I can send Taggart," Captain Ellison volunteered. "Any loyalist or redcoat keeping watch won't suspect a poor black fisherman of carrying a vital dispatch. Given the weather, he may even pass unseen."

With an austere smile, Washington nodded as he moved to the desk and picked up a plumed pen. Dipping it in the inkwell, he swiftly scripted the message to Colonel Glover. After dusting it with sand to dry the ink, he rolled the small scroll and sealed it with a daub of wax impressed with his signet ring. Jim stood to receive the document and quickly left the room. Looking to the others, the General directed, "Gentlemen, our plans remain within this room; I want to take no chance of a spy bearing word to the British. Do what you can to prepare the cannon and wagons. We'll begin to evacuate Long Island one hour after full dark tomorrow night - as we move out, we'll keep the ranks on the pickets so the British sentries don't realize we're leaving. Those men will be the last to go."

* * *

Sandburg accompanied Taggart to the back gate to see him off on his perilous journey across the rough waters of the East River, and then stood on the wet, windy battlements over the cliffs until he saw a distant flash of a lantern on the other side - the signal that he'd arrived safely and their message had been delivered. Ellison had been adamant that Joel was not to return on his own, but with the evacuation force so, for the moment, he was safe. After reporting back to the Captain, who was sharing a late meal with Simon in the stable, and unabashedly assuming the role of caretaker of their small unit, Sandburg first checked and re-bandaged the Captain's wounded arm, and then chivied the two older men into calling it an early night. They were all exhausted and, moments after bedding down in the hay, they were all sound asleep.

The wild storm continued during the night, and the winds and drenching rain remained heavy throughout the next day. Thunder rumbled overhead like distant artillery fire, and lightning flickered in the thick bank of gun-metal gray clouds. General Howe, apparently confident of victory and in no hurry to assert the superiority of his forces, kept his men warm and relatively dry inside their canvas tents. Strong, high swells on the river and the treacherous wind kept his brother and his gunboats anchored in the safety of the mouth of the channel, their sails furled.

Inside the fortified walls of Brooklyn Heights, men hunkered in the rain and tried not to think too much about what their future would bring. Hope that they might yet escape to fight another day kept the men's spirits alive; fear of failure haunted them. Loyalists watched from their windows and doorways. The palisades were well patrolled, the gates securely barred, and the dismal weather made it difficult to sneak out of the town; besides there was nothing much to convey to the British. Disgruntled, hoping the last desperate bid for survival would yet fail when the attack finally came, and end this ill-conceived rebellion, they washed their hands of it all and settled back to wait upon events. But those inhabitants who supported the Continental Army donated more blankets to the sodden men, and linens and clothing to make into bandages for the wounded; piles of cloth were torn into strips and carried to the barn where the injured lay tightly packed in rows of pallets. Townspeople also willingly shared their victuals with the soldiers, and continued to supply them with hot drinks to sustain their energy.

Though the preparations needed to be circumspect, Captain Ellison and his men took on the duty of temporary 'blacksmiths', assigned ostensibly to check the axles and wheels of the wagons and cannon carriages. It was tedious work, but they methodically persisted in greasing the axles, one after another.

General Washington had taken advantage of the brief respite to get some much-needed rest, sleeping through the whole of the night and late into the morning. Later in the day, he went out into the bitter weather to encourage his men, as well as to personally take stock of the stealthy progress made in the desperate and hurried preparations. As he slogged his way back to his temporary headquarters in the darkness of the early night, he cast his gaze upward and silently gave thanks for the rain that stung his face, even as he pondered the possibilities of the inclement weather continuing for another night and a day.

* * *

First thing on the morning on August 29th, Jim and Simon engaged in discussion about what would be needed once the Army was safe on the other side. If all went as planned, the revolutionary force might be safe on Manhattan for a week, maybe a little more, while the Howe brothers organized the movement of men, supplies, and armament across the river. But the British would be hot on their heels and they couldn't afford to stay within reach for long.

"As soon as you're across the river," Jim directed as they broke their fast on the bread, cheese and ale Sandburg had scrounged for them, "I want you and Joel to scout north and west to ensure there aren't more British lurking on the other side, ready to box us in. I doubt that Howe left many men on that side of the river, but we can't afford to make any assumptions."

Simon nodded in agreement as he took a swig of ale. Lowering the plain, clay mug, he swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and asked, "Where will we find you on our return? Command Headquarters or your father's residence in the town?"

Curious about Jim and his background, Blair's ears perked up as he finished his own chunk of bread and, after handing out apples to each of them, began to gather up what food was left to wrap securely for later in the day.

Jim sighed and stared into space as he thought about his answer. He and Sandburg had to billet somewhere and it was foolish to commandeer other space when his father had a perfectly good mansion and room to spare. "After dark, at the house," he replied. "Otherwise at Headquarters."

"Which way do you think the General will jump?" Simon asked then, thinking about the challenges of moving thousands of men a safe distance from the British, to give time to regroup and determine the colonial offence plan.

"I'd guess north, through Harlem and into the forests of upper New York," Jim replied thoughtfully. "We'd lead the British away from the towns where they can easily demand supplies and shelter, and into the wilderness; I suspect we may be better at foraging than they, though we've more than enough townsmen in our own ranks to make finding sustenance a challenge. And we'd be handy to Fort Washington and Fort Lee for resupply."

Simon snorted and nodded as he stood; from what he'd seen of Fort Washington, the place was well-nigh indefensible when the British could easily surround it both on the river and on land. There was no need to say more or to belabor the immensity of the risks and hazards that the future would hold, providing they even made it across the river. The colonial bid for freedom was a bold and probably foolhardy undertaking that would most likely end in defeat. But they were each committed to the worthiness of the cause and resigned to the risks they shared. Fighting for freedom and the right to determine their own destiny was, by far, preferable to being dictated to by a capricious and seemingly insane monarch, and the indifference of the distant parliamentary governance of merchants concerned only with their own profits and landed gentry who had no conception of what life in the New World, let alone true equality, was about.

For a moment, they listened to the unceasing patter of rain on the roof and the rattle of the wind through the plank walls, wondering silently if the elements would continue to play on their side. Rubbing his hands together, Simon grinned good-naturedly and said, "Well, unless you've something else for me to do right now, I'll go make myself useful greasing more wagons."

Smiling, Jim waved him off. "Might as well use that oilskin cape hanging by the door. Keep me posted," he called, as Simon strode toward the side door, "on how its going. By midafternoon, the General will give the orders to begin wrapping wagon wheels and horses' hooves, and the regiments should be starting to get everything and everyone in line to move out. It'll take at least the rest of the day to get organized to evacuate swiftly and silently at nightfall."

"Will do," the big man agreed, gratefully throwing the long oilskin around his shoulders before he stepped out into the persistent rain.

"You two seem to have known each other a long time," Blair ventured as he rolled up their blankets and secured the rest of their gear.

"Long enough," Jim agreed as he stood, but volunteered nothing more. "I guess we should also see how to make ourselves useful."

"Uh ... well, that's one option," Blair agreed. "But Simon can handle the rest of the wagons, and once the order goes out, there are almost ten thousand men plus the townsfolk to get everything sorted out and organized. Two more pairs of hands won't make that much difference."

Frowning, Jim glared at him. "Maybe so, but that's no reason to sit on our butts all day, Corporal."

"That's not what I was suggesting, sir," Sandburg returned levelly, apparently not at intimidated by his censure. "We could use the time to work on your senses. Once we're on the move, well, we may not get a day's worth of hours like this again, at least not soon."

Jim's gaze dropped and he rubbed his mouth. He'd rather grease axels than work on his senses, but he supposed the kid had a point. Sitting back down on a bale of hay, he asked, "What did you have in mind?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Blair asked. "This rank stuff kinda gets in the way and it'll slow us down if I constantly have to ask your leave to suggest an idea or, um, encourage you to try different things."

"By all means, Sandburg, speak freely," Jim replied, barely suppressing a grin. It had been his impression that the notion of rank rarely stopped the younger man from saying what was on his mind.

"Okay, well, first we need to get a good handle on the strength of your senses. I've got some ideas on how to do that with each one," Blair told him as he plopped down at Jim's feet and leaned forward eagerly.

"Then let's get started," Jim told him.

"How far can you see?" he asked.

"Imagine the rolling hills of the Appalachia," Ellison replied. When Blair nodded, he went on, "On the furthest hill, a man is standing under the trees just below the horizon."

Squinting as he tried to picture that, Sandburg shook his head. "I couldn't make out individual trees at that distance, let alone a man in the shadows," he reflected.

"I can see his face as clearly as if he was standing in front of me," Jim told him.

Blair's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in amazement. "Whoa," he gasped. "That's ... that's incredible." Blinking as he assimilated the information, he asked, "Can you always see that well? And how do you bring it back, to not be blinded by such fineness of detail up close?"

Shrugging, Jim looked away. "Sight gives me the least problems; usually, my eyes focus on their own. But sometimes, hard as I try, I can't see that far. Other times, yeah, suddenly everything goes out of focus, everything too big, too close. At night, a sudden bright flare, like lightning, hurts."

Nodding thoughtfully, Blair frowned as he thought about it. "How about," he began, "you think of your eyes like a spyglass - you know, that can be adjusted to bring things into focus? Twist it one way and things get larger, twist it the other and you can see farther." When Jim quirked a brow, he gestured at the floor in the far end of the barn. "Tell me everything you can see, to the smallest detail - dust, gravel, bits of grain, everything - way over there in the corner."

Agreeably, Jim squinted and blinked, grimaced a little and then unconsciously nodded. As he began to describe what he could see, Blair watched his eyes in awe as the pupils expanded and contracted as Jim focused on the details. When there seemed no end to what the sentinel could see, right down to the fine details of the grain on a splinter of wood, Blair whispered, "Keep going; can you see anything smaller?"

Jim blinked and stared into the dusty, shadowed corner. "Motes of dust," he said softly, sounding mesmerized, "like cottonballs floating ...." His voice drifted off and his face lost all expression.

"Oh, oh," Blair observed nervously. "Too far, huh?" When he didn't get any reaction, he waved his hand in front of Jim's eyes, but the flat distant expression didn't change. Swallowing hard, he unconsciously gripped Jim's knee and called, "Captain? Jim? Can you hear me? Listen to my voice, follow it back ... come on, I know you can hear me. The dust is interesting but it's time to come back."

Jim jerked and blinked, and then rubbed at his eyes. Shaking his head as if he was dizzy or disoriented, he asked, "What happened?"

"You kinda drifted off on me," Blair told him. "My fault. I should have realized that focusing that hard would risk getting a little lost in the details."

Irritated, embarrassed, Jim's lips thinned. "How long was I ... gone?" he asked and then, unconsciously rubbing his cheek with the memory of how he'd been brought out of his fugue states in the past, he demanded, "And what did you do to get me to wake up?"

"Well, first you weren't asleep, just concentrating too hard," Blair replied matter-of-factly. "You were only 'lost' for a minute or so. When I realized what happened, I just touched you and called you, and you came right back. No problem."

"No problem? You're kidding?" Jim exclaimed, astonished. "Usually ... well, usually I'm lost in these fits for longer, sometimes hours, and people have to, well, slap me to wake me up."

Wincing, Blair shook his head in empathy and clear disapproval of the crude methods of 'assistance' Jim had experienced in the past. "Jim," he replied emphatically, unaware that he'd again used his superior's first name, "I repeat, you're weren't asleep; you weren't really even 'gone' or 'lost', and you certainly weren't having any kind of fit. You were just focusing so hard that your full concentration was only on what you were seeing."

"I hate it when it happens," Ellison admitted awkwardly. "I hate not knowing what I'm doing, not being aware of my surroundings."

"I can imagine," Sandburg agreed. "But this is why guardians have companions or guides. It's not abnormal or unusual, but it can be dangerous in the wrong situation, and it's certainly uncomfortable for you. The companion's job is to ground you, to help you refocus on the world around you. A touch, voice, should normally be enough."

"And if it's not?" Jim asked, not convinced that it could be that simple.

"Then a sharp scent, maybe a pinch; basically just something which impacts on another sense than the one you're using," Blair replied with a casual shrug. It didn't seem that complicated to him.

"Sandburg, nobody else has ever brought me back that easily or that fast, not ever," Jim told him, his voice tight with remembered humiliations.

"Really? Huh," Blair grunted, his brow furrowing as he considered that. "Maybe that's only because you've never consciously been working on your senses before. You weren't, um, well, tuned into anyone's voice or touch, sorta expecting them to be there, you know?"

"Maybe," Jim replied skeptically. He grimaced and looked away, struggling with an awareness that had been growing for days. He'd been exhausted, there'd been so much going on, and then the battle ... he'd thought the distinctive drumming in his ears was only a temporary aberration and would go away once he'd gotten some rest. But it hadn't. It wasn't that he hadn't heard the same sort of thing in the past, when his hearing was all out of whack, but never before as a constant, even reassuring sound in the background when his hearing was operating normally. "There's something else that's, uh, strange," he muttered and then studied Sandburg intently, assessing his candid gaze and reflecting on how quickly the younger man had become significant to him, how just plain helpful the kid was.

"What?" Blair probed when Jim fell silent, concern flaring in his eyes at Ellison's prolonged scrutiny and obvious assessment of him. He blinked as he thought quickly over the last few minutes and then flushed slightly. "Oh, I ... I guess I got a little too familiar, using your given name like I did. Sorry, sir. I just wasn't thinking."

Startled, not even having noticed, Jim quickly shook his head. "No, no, that's fine when we're just within our own team. None of us are all that concerned with ranks." His lips thinned in impatience with himself. If he was going to work with Blair and rely on the kid's help to sort out his senses, he was also going to have to be candid about how his senses were working. Awkwardly, very uncomfortable with what he felt was some kind of personal invasion that he couldn't seem to control, he admitted, "I can hear your heart beating."

Blair's brows rose in surprise. "My heartbeat?" he echoed and then grinned. "That is so amazing!" he exclaimed, and then as quickly frowned. "But hearing everyone's heartbeat all the time must be really annoying."

"Not everyone's. Just yours," Jim said. "Ever since you found me stumbling toward the encampment a couple days ago. I, uh, I thought it was like the ringing in my ears that I get sometimes, just the result of being nearly dead on my feet. But it hasn't gone away." Restless, he stood to pace. "I've heard heartbeats before, but not often. I can listen for them ... I tried with Simon this morning, and when I concentrated, I could also hear his heart. But I've never just heard someone else's ... all the time."

Blair had lifted his hand to his chest and he looked away as he shook his head, the blush on his cheeks deepening. "I'm sorry ... I don't know why that's happening. Must be driving you crazy. But we can work on it; figure out how to block it."

"No, it's not bothersome," Jim replied, sorry that he appeared to have embarrassed the kid when it wasn't anything Blair was responsible for. "It's ... reassuring, actually. I think it helps ground me. My senses have settled down a lot since, well, since you found me by the river. Working better generally, even when I felt exhausted and my wound was hurting bad. I think maybe that's why; your heartbeat, I mean. It gives me a kind of balance."

Blair took a shaky breath and looked hesitantly up at him. "Jim ... Captain ..." he began nervously, and then licked his lips, obviously grappling with something.

"Jim's fine," he reassured the kid.

"Okay, thanks," Blair sighed gratefully. Taking a breath, he explained carefully, slowly, "The legends I heard? They say a sentinel will recognize his guide, like as if they've always known each other through time even if they've never met in this life. Anyway, the legends say that the sentinel will hear his guide even in the midst of chaos." He shook his head and held up his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry, I don't really understand this all that well. Just what I've been taught by the Cherokee. I swear I never intended, didn't do anything to ... to make this happen. But ... but it sounds like maybe we were destined to meet, if you believe in that sort of thing, that is."

Rubbing his hands together, Jim shook his head. "I've never been inclined to believe in such things," he replied, but thoughtfully, without censure. "What would that mean, exactly? That you're my guide?"

"Yeah ... and, and that I always would be. For the whole of our lives, I'd give you the best support I could, watch your back," Blair said as he studied Jim, thinking about all that would mean in his life.

Chuckling dryly, Jim said, "But surely you have a choice about that, right?"

"No, sir; I don't think I do," Blair murmured, frowning thoughtfully. "No more than you had when you started to hear my heart beating."

"But ... but that's ridiculous, Chief!" he exclaimed. Waving around at the world in general, he went on, "We're engaged in a fight for freedom, and you're talking about a kind of, what? Spiritual slavery?"

"More of a partnership, actually," Blair replied soberly. He shrugged. "But you're right. We're in the fight of our lives, all of us, and who knows if we'll even survive it. No point in worrying about anything long term at this point."

Jim almost flinched at his words; the unwelcome thought of Sandburg dead tightened his chest and twisted his gut. "That's not what I meant," he stated emphatically, moving to squat beside the kid and grip his shoulder. "I meant that it doesn't seem fair that you'd somehow be tied to me for the rest of your life and not have any say in the matter."

"Oh. Well, actually ... I always thought the legends about sentinels and their guides were compelling and, uh, I ... but you probably wouldn't want ...." He stammered to a halt in confusion. Pulling himself together, he went on hurriedly, "The point is, none of that matters right now. We need to get back to work on your senses." Taking a breath, he continued, "So, where were we? Sight. And the problem of ... of over-focusing on one sense. Okay. Um, does the idea of thinking about a telescope help you control your sight better, do you think?"

"Yeah," Jim replied quietly, studying him, thinking about how willing the kid was to accept the idea of helping him as a lifetime project. And how relieved he felt to know that. Didn't make any sense. They hardly knew one another. Giving himself a shake, he brought his mind back to the discussion. "Yeah, that did help. So what do we try next?"

"Well, we kinda started on hearing," Blair replied. "So, let's keep going with it. What can you hear outside? Can you hear conversations in the house?"

Tilting his head and closing his eyes, Jim concentrated on his hearing and Blair, mindful of not letting him over-focus, laid a light hand on his arm. "It's such a jumble of sound," he said finally, frowning with frustration.

"That's okay. Just pick one of the more faint conversations or sounds and focus on it," Sandburg encouraged, his tone low, supportive. After a moment, when Jim's expression cleared, he asked, "You've got something?"

"Yeah. But I don't know where it's coming from."

"Okay, that's okay. What are you hearing?"

"Soldiers talking ...." Jim's eyes opened and his lips parted as he realized what he'd been hearing. "British and German accents! I was hearing soldiers in the camp below!"

"Oh, my God," Blair exclaimed, his enthusiasm and awe once again filling his face and eyes. "Jim ... you're a walking surveillance, spy and forward scout network all by yourself! This is incredible! You're incredible! Your gifts are amazing."

"Gifts?" he repeated, repressively, shaking his head. Standing, he moved away. "Sandburg, my senses have been a torment. I've never thought of them as being any kind of gift."

Blair's gaze softened and he nodded slowly. "I guess I can understand that. You never had anyone to help you figure them out or make them predictable or consistently reliable. But we're going to change that, Jim. Once you find you can trust them, draw upon them at will, they won't be a torment anymore. And it will happen pretty quickly, I think. Look how fast you got the hang of controlling pain, and your sight. With a little practice, you'll find you'll hardly have to think about controlling them - it will become habit."

"You really think so, Blair?" Jim asked but averted his eyes, hating the appeal for reassurance he could hear in his voice, the weakness and uncertainty of it.

"Yes, Jim, I really do," he replied with quiet but absolute confidence. "Your senses really are gifts and I think you'll be very glad to have them in the days and weeks ahead. But you have to be patient with yourself. It takes time to learn and master new skills - though, honestly, you've picked up stuff so fast that I don't think it will take all that long."

Jim nodded slowly, wanting to believe the kid. A slow smile quirked and he said, "You know, I'm really glad you found me by the river the other night. You and not someone else. For the first time, I don't feel like some kind of freak of nature who ... who has these inexplicable, uncontrollable fits and these weird senses that felt like a curse. I appreciate your help in making them work."

Blair flushed with pleasure and ducked his head diffidently. "Thanks, Captain. I'm really glad I found you, too," he replied softly. "Really glad." Looking up, he added with devastating candor, "I ... I never really felt like I belonged anywhere before, you know? That maybe I mattered and could make a difference to anyone. So it means a lot that you want me on your team, and I really will do my best for you."

Jim's throat tightened. "I know you will, Blair. You've already proven that to me."

A brilliant smile lit Sandburg's face and he took a deep, satisfied breath. "Okay, let's do some more work on hearing," he said eagerly. "Tell you what; let's go for a walk and see if we can create distance markers in your mind that are linked to sound, by listening to what you hear and tracking down how far away the various levels of sound clarity are?"

"Good idea, Sandburg," Jim agreed immediately, even gratefully. Though it was still pouring outside, he'd be relieved to get some fresh air, and not simply to get out of the dusty and noisome barn. There was an intensity about the kid - more, about how much he was beginning to care for Blair that he found disconcerting. He wasn't used to caring about many people or feeling a growing need to personally protect them; usually he held himself pretty aloof. And despite Sandburg's odd moments of candid vulnerability, he was obviously a self-sufficient, resourceful man who had little need for a protector. If anything, Sandburg was oddly his protector at the moment, or at least his teacher. He told himself the improbable intensity of his feelings was only natural because Blair was the only person he'd ever met who actually understood what was going on with his senses, and that he was simply feeling unusually dependent, something he'd not felt about another human being since he'd been a child. But he couldn't deny that his earlier brief image of losing the kid in battle had left him feeling decidedly shaky.

He told himself all would pass, had to pass - they were at war and there were no guarantees for any of them - but he still felt unbalanced. A bracing walk would do him good, would help him clear his head.

As they strode along the wet, muddy street, Blair chattered on about ideas on how to link sound to distance and suggested that the telescope idea might work for his hearing as well, as a means of tuning sounds louder or softer. He nodded as he listened; and he found the flow of the melodious voice and helpful suggestions, and the subtle steady sound of Sandburg's heartbeat, calming, even soothing, as they walked in the rain. Taking a deep breath of the cool air, he smiled and looped an arm around the kid's shoulders. For the first time since he'd been a child, he felt excited about his senses rather than resentful, even more than a little afraid, of them. Maybe Blair was right. Maybe they would prove to be gifts after all.

* * *

Three and a half hours later, back in the stable, Jim sneezed and wiped his streaming eyes, and decided he'd perhaps been a mite too optimistic. Blair had had him sniffing a seemingly endless stream of various and sundry herbs, dried flowers and twigs from his backpack to identify each and every one of them, and he was tired, his head was aching from the effort of concentrating so relentlessly, and he was completely frustrated by the discomfort of learning to master his errant senses. Shoving Blair's hand and a small leather pouch of herbs away from his face, he growled furiously, "Enough!" and surged to his feet just as Simon stepped in from the rain.

Sandburg jerked back, flicked a glance at Simon, and then bowed his head to concentrate on tightening the drawstring on the pouch before carefully replacing it in his pack. Watching both of them warily, a frown drawing his brows together, Simon palmed his tight, black curls to slick off the rainwater, and then wiped his face with his hands. The cape streamed runnels of water and a puddle formed around his feet. "What's going on here?" he asked, looking from Jim, who was pacing in agitation, to Blair, and back again.

Snorting, Ellison scooped his tri-cornered hat from the hook by the door. "You tell him," he snapped curtly at Blair, the words in the clear tones of command, as he pushed open the sturdy wooden door.

"Yes, _sir_ ," the Corporal replied with just enough sarcastic emphasis on the 'sir' to infuriate Jim even further, in large measure because he knew damned well he was being unreasonable and he didn't appreciate Blair's evident irritation that only made him feel arrogant and churlish.

"Look," he snarled defensively, pointing a finger at the younger man, "Don't play me for a fool. I told you earlier, you don't need to 'sir'-me when it's just amongst ourselves. So, cut the crap."

Blair leveled a flat look at him, but then his gaze dropped and his shoulders sagged as he nodded mutely. Jim stared at him for a moment more and then stormed out, calling coldly over his shoulder, "I'll raid the kitchen for some food and drink, and be back in a while."

Simon blinked as the door was slammed shut in his wake, and then turned to Sandburg. "What bee got into his bonnet?" he asked, a hint of amusement lurking in his dark eyes. Jim might have appeared livid, but the fact that he was going to find them all food, normally Sandburg's job, told Simon clearer than words would that the man just needed some space. Quirking a brow as he watched Blair's lips thin as he continued to pack away small clay pots and leather pouches, he reflected that the kid probably didn't know their Captain wasn't really all that angry with him. After shrugging off the leather cape he'd borrowed that morning and returning it to the hook by the door, he moved across the straw-strewn floor, grimacing a little at the squeak of his very wet boots.

Blair craned his neck to look up at him from where he was sitting cross-legged, Indian-fashion, on the floor by the bale Jim had been sitting on. Rising, he perched on the bale and sighed. "You know about his awesome senses, right? That he can see and hear, smell and taste stuff more clearly, more ... finely, than ordinary men?"

Simon nodded as he sat down on a nearby barrel. "Yeah," he allowed. "And he sometimes has spells."

"They aren't spells," Blair replied solemnly. "When he seems, I don't know, lost like that, he's really just concentrating so hard on one sense that he loses track of everything else around him. When that happens, he needs to be touched and called back. If that doesn't work, then smelling salts probably would."

"What were you doing that got him so ornery?" Simon asked curiously, intrigued that the kid seemed so comfortable with what had been a mystery to everyone else about his friend and his senses.

"Jim's problem is that he never had anyone to help him learn how to control the intensity of his senses or how to use them reliably, so they've frustrated and, I think, maybe, scared him a little," Blair replied evenly. "This morning, we've been working on getting a handle on how strong each sense is, and how he could bend them to his will." He shrugged and bowed his head. "It's my fault that he got annoyed. I was pushing him too hard; trying to do too much, too fast." Looking back at Simon, he added earnestly, "But he's a fast learner and he was doing really well. He's, uh, well, he's pretty amazing."

Smiling indulgently, Simon asked, "How do you know stuff about his senses? About how to gauge them and work with them?"

"I heard legends about sentinels when I lived with the Cherokee," Blair told him, smiling a little in memory. "When I was a kid, I loved listening to the shaman - he told some really great stories."

His gaze narrowing, he echoed, "The Cherokee? How'd you come to live with them?"

Blair's smile faded and his gaze drifted away. "It's a long story," he replied with a shrug.

"So ... you got some place to be?" Simon encouraged, scratching his cheek. "Myself, I like a good long story."

"Yeah?" Blair returned, flashing him a small, speculative grin. "If I tell you my story, will you tell me yours?"

"Sure," Simon agreed with easy companionability. "But I asked first."

Sandburg studied him and then he rolled his eyes. "You'll tell me - just not today, right?"

Chuckling, Simon gave him a wide smile of approbation. "You're a quick one," he observed approvingly. But he sobered as his gaze roamed the barn and the horses in the back stalls. Shrugging, he said quietly, "Some stories are dangerous to know."

"I figured," Blair murmured. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me. I ... I know that some secrets are best kept secret, at least until you really know a man, if he's trustworthy or not."

Simon gave him a piercing look then, one of assessment that weighed him. He nodded to himself and, settling more comfortably on the barrel, he crossed his arms. "I'd really like to hear your story, if you've a mind to tell it," he encouraged, his tone low and gentle.

"Well, let's see," the kid began, gathering his thoughts and frowning a little, as if he wasn't used to relaying the tale of his life. "My mother was only sixteen when I was born in, I think, a city somewhere here in the north. I don't know who my father was." He paused for a moment and then went on flatly, as if daring Simon to signal contempt or judgment, "I guess my arrival was something of a disgrace, 'cause Ma had to leave and take care of both of us on her own." When the older man simply nodded, Blair relaxed marginally. "We ended up in a small town near the Virginia frontier and I guess she told folks she was widowed, and she needed work. There wasn't much - we had a small garden and she baked and canned and sold what she could, and she had some education, could read, write, do 'rithmatic, so she persuaded some of the folks to send their little ones to our shanty for learning in exchange for meat and supplies. We managed fine, most of the time. But, well, when ... when I was seven, one of the men in town brought home his new bride from the place he'd originally come from, and she recognized my mother. She, uh, she told everyone my mother was a harlot, and that I was a bastard."

Again he paused and took a shaky breath, his face averted. "I don't know how I came to be born, but my Ma was a good person, an' she took real good care of me. She was kind, gentle, and she loved to laugh. And she was no whore. From as far back as I can remember, men were always coming 'round, 'cause she was a pretty lady, but she didn't have nothing to do with them." He swallowed hard. "Not that that made any difference. Things got ugly, with all the unhappy married ladies blaming my Ma, saying she must be dallying with their husbands. One day, Ma came back from the general store, and she looked scared. She was hurrying and shoving books in a canvas bag, along with some of our clothes and whatever food we had in the larder. And then she took my hand and started running away from the town. I could hear angry shouting and then people were all around us on the road, chasing us - they threw stones. She ... she pulled me close and bent over me, to keep the rocks from hitting me. And we fell to the ground. I couldn't see anything but after awhile the shouting stopped and I could tell the townsfolk had finally left us alone."

Avoiding Simon's eyes, he pressed his lips together and swallowed hard, sniffed and swiped his hand under his nose. "She ... she groaned and moved a bit, so I could crawl out from under her. And there was blood, so much blood, on her head and face. Her breathing sounded funny, like she couldn't get any air." Shaking his head, he took a shuddering sigh, "She took my hand and gripped it hard, and she told me ... she told me to take the canvas bag and to keep going. She told me to read all the books in the bag, and that I was a good boy and that I'd be a fine man someday. She ... she told me to always act so's she'd be proud of me." Crossing his arms, Blair bowed his head, and his voice lowered to a rasping whisper. "She wanted me to leave her, but I wouldn't go. I stayed with her all night. I was so scared and didn't know how to help her, you know? Anyway, the last thing she said was, 'I love you, Blair. I will always love you.' And she died, right there by the side of the dirt road. And nobody ... nobody cared."

"You cared, son," Simon rumbled, his voice sounding thick and sad.

Biting his lip, Blair nodded. "Yeah," he murmured softly. "I cared." He sniffed again and brushed at his eyes. "I found a stick to dig with and I did my best to bury her decently next to some bushes and flowers off the trail, and I asked God to take care of her. And then I left, dragging the heavy bag behind me. I was afraid to stay on the road, so I walked into the hills. Walked for a long time. I ate what she'd packed so quickly, and berries; drank from streams. I don't rightly know how many days I walked. But one day, I was so tired. And I just wasn't sure ... I didn't know where I was or where I was going. I ... I gave up, I guess," he said, sounding ashamed, "an' I just dropped by a log. I thought ... I thought, you know, about animals and stuff, but I just couldn't go any further." He drew a shuddering breath and then pushed his hair back from his face and straightened. Looking up at Simon, he said, "A Cherokee hunting party found me lying there, half dead, and took me back to their village. They didn't adopt me, exactly. Once I was strong again, I was a kind of servant, I guess, to one of the village elders. Cooking for him, mending his clothing."

Simon's eyes flashed and his mouth tightened. The whites weren't the only ones who took slaves and he had some idea how warriors would view boy or man doing a woman's work.

Oblivious to his reaction, lost in his memories, Blair was continuing, "But, eventually, they taught me how to hunt and fight. And because they believe in a person being of their own 'tribe', they did their best to tell me about white people and what they'd learned from the missionaries about our God. They also, as I said, taught me about their own customs, legends and beliefs. The Shaman was a really interesting person and he kinda took me under his wing after a few years, maybe because I was so interested in his stories. He taught me about the herbs for healing, and how to care for the injured and sick, well, in terms of how they care for their people." Fingering his earring, he told Simon, "He made this for me. Said I was of the wolf clan. His name for me was Wind Walker. He told me that was because the wind had blown me to them and would one day blow me on my way; and that, if I listened, I'd hear all the secrets the wind knew and if I closed my eyes, my spirit would walk in the wind. And he said the wolf would protect me and guide my steps on my journey until I found the black panther who guarded his tribe. He said ... he said when I found the panther, I would be home."

Frowning, Simon cocked his head. "Sounds ...."

"Crazy. Yeah, I know," Blair allowed defensively. But his gaze went to the door.

"No, not crazy," Simon corrected thoughtfully. "Sounds to me like he saw your future; sounds to me like he thought you might have special powers."

Blair's lips quirked wryly, and he shook his head. "Special powers? Me? No. I'm just a wanderer, which is ironic, isn't it? My people have been wandering through all the centuries."

Silence fell between them and then Simon asked, "How'd you come to be fighting with the Continental Army?"

"Well, when the Chief and the Elders were invited to Philadelphia to sign one of those treaties that nobody pays much attention to, they took me along. Said I was a man and it was time for me to go back to my own people, so I could find a woman and marry one of my own kind."

Blair hesitated, frowned as if he was going to say more about that and then shook his head. But Simon interrupted knowingly, "The Chief's daughter was getting a mite too interested, huh?"

Looking chagrined, Blair nodded. "Yeah. But he didn't have to worry, you know? She was just a kid. No older than my Ma must've been when .... Well, I just wouldn't do that." Quirking his brows, he gave a small grin as he added, "Besides, there were other and more, um, suitable offers from time to time."

Laughing as he regarded the young man and reflected on how the ladies of any culture would no doubt find him of interest, he replied, "I'll just bet there were."

"Anyway, that's when I met the General," Blair said, bringing his story back on track. "And he was intrigued, I guess, by the idea of a Jew raised by the Indians, and he was sure surprised I could read and write. I was a ... a novelty of sorts."

Glancing at Simon, he added, "I did read all those books my Ma told me to read. There were quite a number of Shakespeare's plays, and a book on basic arithmetic. Another on the history of the world. One that explained good manners. The Tanach ... uh, the Jewish book that contains some of what is in the Christian Bible. A few others. I knew how to read well enough that I struggled my way through them. Some of 'em I had to read more'n a few times before I understood them, or thought I understood. And the General, well, he wasn't a general then, but he needed someone to work with him, taking his notes, keeping his letters, stuff like that an' he let me make free with his library. When he had no need of me, I read everything I could. Anyway, I needed a place to be, so I went on home with him. That was not quite a year ago. When he was named Commander in Chief, it seemed natural to come with him, to help with the same sorts of things, running errands and such."

"How old are you?" Simon asked.

"Eighteen," Blair replied. "I was with the Cherokee for eleven years." Blowing a long breath, he finished his tale, "I'm not with the Army just because of the General. I believe in what this fight is about. I read about the first democracy in Greece in that history book, and I've read Thomas Paine's Common Sense. I agree with him that men should have a right to govern themselves. And I think freedom is important, really important, worth fighting for." Glancing at Simon, he added, "I expect you think the same thing."

"Well, you got that right," Simon allowed grimly. He hesitated and then asked with a carefully neutral tone, "You think you've found your panther, don't you?"

Surprised, Blair's eyes widened, but he again looked at the door and nodded slowly. "I'm not really sure what it means to have a home," he mused distantly. "I've never really had one, or not for long."

* * *

In the large kitchen in the back of the house, Jim stuffed small, two-day-old hard loaves of bread, a ring of white cheese, a few carrots, and more apples into a sack. Wasn't fancy, but it would stave off their hunger. His expression was solemn, and his head was slightly cocked as he listened to the steady thrum of Sandburg's heartbeat and the end of the story of the young Corporal's life. He wasn't sure if the kid had answered Simon's question, but he remembered Blair's remarks earlier in the day, about being glad his life might now make a difference and about how sentinels were sometimes called guardians of their tribes.

He'd never been 'home' for anyone before, hadn't really thought he ever would be. Wasn't entirely sure he was worth the commitment and dedication the kid was willing to give to him. Shaking his head, his jaw tightened when he thought about Sandburg trying to bury his murdered mother when he was only seven years old; he'd thought he'd had it rough when his own mother had abandoned their family when he'd been the same age. Anger flared and his fists tightened at the brutality of those anonymous townspeople; he'd rarely felt such virulent or such futile rage. And then he thought about that probably damned scared little, orphaned kid wandering in the wilderness and lying down when he'd run out of food and didn't have the strength to go on; lying down to die alone in the middle of nowhere. The muscles in his chest cramped and his throat thickened as a wave of profound grief and protectiveness nearly swamped him. God, it was a miracle the kid had survived. He'd heard some sad stories in his life, tragic stories, but Blair's ranked with the worst of them. Swallowing hard, he shook his head and sighed. And then he dashed through the rain across the cobblestone courtyard, back to the barn.

Just before he entered, he heard Blair say, "Oh, by the way, when the Captain and I were doing the rounds this morning, we stopped by the supply wagon and requisitioned some clothing for you and Joel - we noticed you'd arrived with just the shirts on your backs. I've got it packed in my duffel and I'll take it all across the river, unless you'd like to change into dryer things now?"

"Well, that's mighty kind of the two of you," Simon exclaimed, pleased by the consideration shown for their needs. "But I think I'll probably get a whole lot wetter before this night is done, so might as well save the dry stuff for later."

They both looked toward him when the door creaked open.

"You can thank Sandburg for the clothing. He thought of it," Jim said as he pulled off his hat and then opened his sack to serve out their repast. Glancing at Blair, he added, "You still stuck on 'Captain'?"

"Uh, well," the Corporal stammered. "It's reflexive, sir."

Both older men chuckled and, Blair, seeing that Jim's earlier anger had dissipated, relaxed.

"How're the preparations going?" Jim asked Simon as he sliced the round of cheese, and handed around good-sized chunks along with the rolls.

"Good," he replied. "They'll be ready to move before full dark so as soon as the Marblehead Mariners get here, we'll be good to go."

Jim's cheeks puffed slightly as he blew a relieved breath. "We just might pull this off."

Grimacing, Simon observed, "The wind'll have to go down. I looked out at the river before I came back here, and the swells are still mighty high."

"But if the wind goes down, Admiral Howe could stop us with his gunboats," Blair said anxiously.

The other two men nodded grimly, and concentrated on eating their simple meal. The weather was out of their hands, and they could only hope it would cooperate. Cocking his head a little as he listened to the wind and the rain beating on the roof, Jim thought the storm was finally letting up but, whether that was good news or not, it was too soon to tell.

Simon's voice drew his attention back. "Blair, here, tells me you're a sentinel."

"Yeah, according to Cherokee legend," Jim replied, his tone neutral but, when he caught uncertainty flickering in Sandburg's eyes, perhaps wondering if he was being disparaging, he added with more warmth, "The stories sure fit what I've experienced all my life. And Sandburg has been a fount of ideas on how to deal with them."

Blair didn't say anything, but the subtle tension in his body eased and he attacked his bread and cheese with more evident appetite. A grin played around Simon's mouth. "Well, you know, Jim, I think we found a good one in this young'un. He's resourceful, that's for sure. Quick, too, and I don't just mean how lightly he runs through the forest."

Sandburg choked a bit and flushed, and he turned his face away as if unsure what to say.

"Yes, I think we have found a good one for our merry little band," Jim agreed, amused by the kid's discomfiture.

Standing, Simon helped himself to a couple of carrots, and then pulled on the cape once again. "Think I'll just mosey 'round town, maybe wave to General Howe," he said genially. "You two probably got more work to do on them senses."

Jim grimaced but nodded. After the big man left, silence reigned. Blair got up to appropriate an apple and then cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I pushed you too hard this morning. I know it's not easy."

Glancing away, giving a little, uncomfortable shrug, Jim sighed and wondered if the kid had any idea at all how very hard it was. "It's a lot to take in," he finally said as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Cups of river water to ease pain, lantern wicks to turn up or down to hear things more finely, spyglasses to see better and maybe to figure out how far away sound is, water cocks on mills to control the rush of smells or tastes ...."

Studying him, Sandburg nodded. His gaze grew distant for a moment, and then he said bluntly, "It's too much, way too much to remember, especially when we're in tight situations. I should have realized that." He paused for a spell and then suggested, "What if we just used one idea for all your senses? Which one works the best for you? Feels most comfortable? Is easiest to imagine?"

Frowning, Jim thought about it. "The spyglass. It's simple; just twist it one way or the other."

"Okay, then. From now on, to adjust any of your senses, you adjust it up or down," Blair agreed. "We can at least try that, and see if it works."

"Good enough." Jim hesitated and then went on, "I guess we should go back to working on my sense of smell."

"You sure?" Blair asked uncertainly. "Made you pretty miserable this morning."

"Avoiding tough stuff never makes it go away," he replied, resigned, and then felt ashamed as he thought of a child burying his mother by the side of the trail. More firmly, he said, "Let's do it."

* * *

Two hours later, Jim cocked his head and held up his hand. "The rain's stopping," he reported and then stood to pull on his hat. Scrambling to his feet, Blair followed him out the door. Only then did he realize that, not the only the rain was ending, but the wind had fallen, as well. With a long stride, Jim led the way to the gates and palisade overlooking the valley below. Scant minutes later, they were climbing the sturdy wooden steps and gazing out at the mass of tents in the morass of mud.

Tendrils of mist hung over the valley, ghostly in the gray afternoon. Jim tilted his head and closed his eyes, and Blair laid a hand on his back. "Take it easy," he murmured. "Slip over conversations until you find what you're listening for." Jim nodded and then frowned with frustration; unconsciously rubbed his ears. "Open the spyglass," Blair suggested softly. "A little at a time ...."

Jim stood silently concentrating for so long, that Blair wondered if he should pull him back. But then a feral smile flitted over Ellison's lips. Straightening, blinking his eyes open, he looked down at Sandburg. "C'mon. We need to brief the General. Howe's decided to let the ground dry out overnight, and to attack in the morning."

Grinning, Blair followed him down the steps and they hurried back to their temporary Headquarters. Now, if the fleet of gunboats would just stay anchored in the channel, they would all live to fight another day.

* * *

The mist thickened as the afternoon waned, until a heavy fog hung just a few feet over the land and water, making it impossible to see anything even just two paces away. By evening, the wind had died and the swells had calmed, though the current was still swift. Soldiers began putting the horses into harness and then, as darkness fell, the narrow streets leading to the back gate began to fill with wagons. Behind them, companies formed along side streets and alleyways, ready to march out when the command was given. The townspeople watched, the Loyalists mutely cursing the charmed weather, and the Army's supporters looking hard-pressed to hold in their cheers. Anticipation and the eagerness to go became palpable, and then the back gates opened and the first carts carrying their cannon and munitions began to trundle down the incline toward the water's edge.

Standing on the parapet, Jim peered through the heavy mist, and attempted to stretch his hearing at the same time. Finding it a struggle, he mentally imagined two spyglasses, adjusted both of them and, finding that worked better for individual sense adjustment, he muttered to Blair, "I need a spyglass for every one of my senses." Sandburg looked at him in surprise and then smiled, pleased that Jim was applying what they'd discussed and was making adjustments for his own ease and comfort.

Only minutes later, it was his hearing that alerted him first. "They're on their way," he told Simon and Blair, his voice taut. "Sounds like a whole flotilla is gathering out there, just out of sight." He turned and waved down to the General, and then gave a 'thumbs-up'.

Below, Washington sent aides scurrying to inform the company commanders that relief was at hand, and then he swung up onto his white charger to make his way down to the dock, to welcome Colonel John Glover and thank him personally for coming to their rescue.

Boats and rafts appeared out of the fog like silent specters, until the river was thick with watercraft. But the Mariners had organized themselves well. The rafts pulled in tight to shore, to begin taking on warriors even as more sturdy craft docked one after another, so as one left with cannon or supply wagons, another took its place. Ropes were tossed and caught, quietly looped around stanchions, and as quickly loosened, and as silently, when the boat was ready to cast off.

Above, while Simon and Blair stared into the darkness and could barely make out the forms of wagon teams and men moving down the slope below, Jim watched the incredible spectacle with ease. They all found the near silence, but for the muffled clop of hooves and soft nickering, and the occasional scrape of a boot, almost eerie. But none there that night dared make a sound for the slightest noise would travel easily over the water and the gunboats weren't that far away. The wounded, heavily dosed with laudanum so that most would sleep during the painful transfer, followed the weaponry and supply carts, carried aboard on stretchers. The odd snore sounded like a fisherman anchored for the night - or so they hoped the British would think, as mariners and waiting soldiers went still, straining to hear the raucous sound of anchors rising. But the murky fog dampened sounds, so the rhythmic dip of oars and barge poles were almost soporific. The night wore on, tension growing with the worry that the mist would lift or the dawn come before they were all away. Then, hour after hour, boats and rafts overflowing with soldiers euphoric with the sure knowledge of escape ghosted back and forth across the East River, and the fortified town of Brooklyn Heights gradually emptied of the crowd of ten thousand men and their camp followers. The fog shifted and whirled as the boats slipped through it, small eddies of wispy motion that then settled in their wake. The wind, so strong that morning, was holding its breath, and the air was heavy with damp. The seeming endless parade of weary, anxious and yet excited men down the lane and onto ghost ships that appeared from and as quickly disappeared into the mist took on a dream-like quality, surreal in the silence.

"As good as most of 'em have been," Simon murmured, looking over his shoulder, back over the town that was perched high enough to be above the drifting, wraithlike mist, and squinting through the darkness that was relieved only by the flicker of a few, scattered torches. "They have to glad to see the back of us. They shared what they had, but their larders must be near empty by now."

Jim nodded and then led the way down to the road. Across the river, the passengers felt less need for total silence and he could hear low calls and the thud of boots along the wharf as they hurried into town, seeking shelter and sustenance; the sounds had a distant, hollow quality, distorted by the mist. Biting his lip, he looked to the eastern horizon and he could see a slight lightening in the cloudbank; the heat of the rising sun would burn off the mist swiftly. Dawn was only about an hour away and it was time to take their places down on the shore if they were to be off the water and safely hidden on the other side before light broke. He waved Simon off onto the raft that would carry General Washington across. "Find Joel and fill him in on what we decided. I'll see you back at my father's place sometime tomorrow night or at Headquarters the next day."

Simon nodded and was turning to go when Blair caught his arm and handed him the duffle he'd been carrying. "We probably won't need this for the next few days," he said. "Bed rolls and dry clothing."

The big man smiled gratefully down at him as he shouldered the pack. After gripping Blair's shoulder briefly in thanks, he made his way to the raft.

Jim and Blair waited until the last of the soldiers had left the embankment and then they, too, climbed aboard a small fishing boat. By the time they were across the river, most of the boat and rafts that had saved the Continental Army had already moved off, the fishermen drifting into the channel to cast their nets as if it were any ordinary day. The longer they could keep the British believing the Americans were still trapped on the Heights, the more time the General would have to determine the Army's next move. As the sun rose, they strode along the wharf and Blair looked back at the river. The heavy mist that had sheltered them all the long night was lifting and breaking up in the freshening wind, as if it knew its job of providing a protective shield was done. A shiver rippled along his spine as he looked searchingly into the sky. "Thank you," he murmured to whatever power had watched over them for the last several days and had seen them safely away from their enemy.

Up in the town, on the upper balcony of the west side mansion that hosted the Headquarters of the Continental Army, General Washington also stared up at the sky, offering his own fervent gratitude. A Deist, he believed in a Creator or, as some called the force that governed the universe, Divine Providence. However, he hesitated to assume that any such force concerned Itself with the picayune affairs of men, but the persistent storm and heavy rains, followed by the timely fog and night of calm sent shivers along his spine. Could it be that they were aligned with the designs of Providence, with the God that had created the earth and stars? Was their enterprise as natural and right as the turn of the seasons? He didn't know, but he felt a lightening of the weight of enormous responsibility he bore for leading his fledgling army in this desperate gamble for freedom. Surely, the weather had been a sign, perhaps even a promise; Divine Providence had sheltered them and seen them to safety when, by rights, all should already have been lost. If their struggle was, indeed, a natural part of the evolution of man and community, how could they ultimately lose? Snorting to himself, he shook his head. He didn't believe in miracles and it was arrogant to imagine something as great and unknowable as the Creator bothered about his worries and challenges. Smiling with wry weariness as he went back inside to his private chambers, he reflected on the axiom that God helped those who helped themselves, and he thought it a very sensible idea. They'd need courage and resolve; the way forward would be hard. But, for the first time, he believed in his heart that they would win this War of Independence.

* * *

Twenty minutes after they'd stepped ashore, Jim led Blair through a tall, wrought-iron gate in a high stone wall surrounding a residence on the edge of open meadowland and forest. Spurning the formal graveled path that paralleled the paved carriageway that wound up a slight incline to the house and, beyond, to the stables in the back, Jim strode across emerald grass past sumptuous gardens filled with multi-hued flowers and elegant shrubbery. In his wake, Blair looked around the grounds and up at the stately stone mansion, his mouth gaping and his eyes wide. He'd known that Jim had to be a gentleman or of the rich merchant class; all the officers were. So he'd imagined a certain level of wealth. Having stayed for a time on the General's estate, if not in the house but sharing space in the barn with the horses and rats, he had seen how the privileged lived. But this was beyond anything he'd seen before and he sorely doubted that rats would dare to venture anywhere near even the stable of such a grand palace as this.

It was only as they were marching up the stone steps to the gracious verandah and entry that Sandburg noticed that Jim seemed tense, his expression closed and guarded. Wondering why, Blair nevertheless followed his lead and hid his discomfort and uncertainty behind a stoic mask. Jim shouldered opened the burnished oak door and waved him inside, where he found himself in a richly appointed wide foyer. The floor was paved with marble and a crystal chandelier hung overhead. To the left and right, side corridors led off to unknown salons and chambers. Directly across from the door was a wide, elegant staircase that led up to a balcony that overlooked the entryway. He could see various doors along the upper hall.

"This way," Jim told him, turning to the right. They passed a massive formal dining room that looked out the back through French doors and floor to ceiling windows upon a vast garden. Further along, there was a less formal dining chamber and, beside it, what looked as they swept past what looked like a study, the walls lined with tall bookcases. Along the way, they encountered a manservant.

"Marcus," Jim greeted him with an austere nod. "Would you have rooms made up for my companion and myself?"

The servant, or butler as Blair supposed he was, ran a disapproving eye over him and sniffed. "As you wish, Master James," the man replied pompously, with a slight curl of his lips. Sliding past, his head down, Blair figured he probably objected to their scruffy appearances, which were so at odds with the elegance of the house. Or maybe the man simply objected to Jim bringing him home; clearly, he did not belong in such a setting, not as a guest to the heir.

Jim ignored the butler's attitude and continued along the richly-paneled corridor. Finally, they came to a covered walkway that led to the kitchen that was separated from the main building to guard against the possibility of fire. A cook was already at work, making bread, and the bright room was warm from the heat of the huge black stove against the far wall. She was slightly built, with silver threads in her coal-black hair that was gathered at the nape of her neck in a bun.

"Sally," Jim called warmly as she looked up with exotic, almond-shaped dark eyes, and a joyous smile illuminated the porcelain beauty of her face.

"Jimmy!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron, and then blushed at her familiarity when she realized he wasn't alone.

He moved across the room and bent to buss her floury cheek. Then he gestured toward Blair. "This is Blair Sandburg. He'll be staying here with me for the next day or so." Sniffing the air appreciatively, he grinned. "And we're starving, to tell you the God's own truth."

"Well, you just sit yourselves down at the table," she urged, waving them toward the chairs on the far side of the table from where she'd been working. In minutes, she had fresh cinnamon rolls, still warm from the oven, fried eggs, bacon and potatoes sharing plates with sliced tomatoes served up and set before them. She poured them each a large glass of milk, and smiled to see them both dig into their meal with hearty enthusiasm.

They'd just finished when Blair heard footsteps in the hall beyond, and then a distinguished man with a thick head of gray hair and eyes the same colour of blue as Jim's strode into the kitchen.

"Jim, good to have you home, son," he said, the words welcoming though his manner was stiff and awkward. "Marcus told me you were here."

"Father," he replied as he stood from the table. "This is Blair Sandburg. Blair, my father. William Ellison."

"Yes, Marcus mentioned you'd brought someone with you," the elder Ellison said with a cursory glance at Blair and a quirked brow at the rough, frontier garb. "Mr. Sandburg," he acknowledged with little evident warmth. "We'll have accommodations prepared for you in the servants' hall over the stables."

"He's staying here, in the main house," Jim retorted flatly. "And, since we've been up all night, we'll be retiring for a few hours of rest."

Something flickered in William Ellison's eyes that Blair couldn't read, but the older man didn't contest the matter further. Instead, he said, "We heard the Army was under siege on Brooklyn Heights."

"We were," Jim allowed briefly. "The Army evacuated to Manhattan during the night."

"All of it?" he exclaimed and then frowned as he looked away, and his lips thinned. Blair's gaze narrowed as he watched and listened. But he'd seen and heard enough. Jim's father was either a Loyalist or at least unsympathetic to the revolt. Shifting his gaze to Jim, he regretted the undercurrent of conflict that was palpable between the two men. Never having had a family, he thought it a shame to have one and not be happy with it.

"Yes, Father, we all made it to safety." Waving Blair to again follow him, he said, "Don't worry. We won't be here long." He thanked Sally for their meal, and then led the way out of the kitchen, back to the broad staircase in the foyer. Blair suggested having another look at the healing wounds of his arm, but Jim waved the idea off. "It's fine," he replied, flexing it and barely wincing. "The dressing's still clean."

Jim left him in a spacious, luxurious chamber that overlooked the grounds at the back of the house. "I'll have hot water sent up, and the chamber pot'll be under the bed," he said. "We'll go over to Headquarters this afternoon. Someone will wake you for lunch and I'll meet you downstairs."

"Uh, okay," Blair agreed, feeling dazed and out of his element as he gaped at the massive bed and then looked up at Jim. "In the kitchen?"

"Most comfortable room in the house," he agreed with a nod. "Sleep well."

Left alone, Blair dropped his pack near the bed and wandered across the room to the windows and looked out on manicured lawns and well-tended gardens. From his vantage point, he could see a small pond fed by a stream that rambled across the property and he smiled at the ducks that swam serenely on its surface. There was a white gazebo near the water, and he spotted benches set under shade trees.

A sharp knock on the door claimed his attention, and he hurried to respond. A young maid carrying an over-sized pitcher with steaming water and an armful of linens scooted past him to deposit her burdens on a low table in the corner, beside a bowl. After pouring a generous amount of water into the basin and pulling a wrapped bar of soap from her apron pocket to set beside it, she turned and curtsied. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Uh, no, no, that's great. Thanks," he stammered and, with another bob, she hurried out again.

Blowing a breath, Blair began undressing, eager to clean off the mud and filth he'd accumulated in the last several days. After washing, he was delighted to find that, with care, he could wash his hair over the basin, rinsing it with still warm water from the pitcher. Toweling his hair dry, he turned to the bed. A large four-poster, it was covered with a goose-down quilt and the pillows looked as soft as clouds. Tentatively, he moved toward it and reached out to press down on its surface. Firm, but not hard. He looked at his bedroll and then back at the bed, and a slow smile curved over his lips. Carefully, he drew down the counterpane and found sheets edged with delicate lace and so fine he was sure they must be silk; for a moment, he simply allowed himself to touch the smooth, pristine surface. Then he looked under the bed and spotted the ornate porcelain covered pot and his lips thinned in a grimace. Seemed indecent to him, the idea that someone else would have to dump his slops and clean up after him. But his need was immediate, and there didn't look to be other choices. The one thing he hadn't spotted out the back was a privy. Feeling decidedly awkward, he used the appliance, his nose curling as he covered it and then he carefully slipped it back out of sight.

And then he climbed onto the high bed ... and sighed in pure sensual delight. He'd never lain upon a mattress stuffed with something soft that conformed to his body, or on sheets that felt cool against his skin even in the summer's heat, or upon plump pillows that cradled his head. A breeze laden with floral perfume drifted through the open windows, billowing the light curtains and lightly caressing him. Closing his eyes, he savoured the decadence, the incredible comfort of it, knowing well that this was probably the only time in his life that he'd experience something so indescribably luxurious.

Exhausted, his stomach pleasantly full, his body clean, a small smile of utter contentment on his lips, he soon slipped deeply into sleep.

* * *

"General Howe! Wake up, sir!"

The middle-aged general pushed away the hand that shook his shoulder lightly, and grumbled as he pulled himself the rest of the way from sleep. He scrubbed his eyes and sniffed, and then looked up from his camp cot in his tent at his aide-de-camp. "What is it?" he demanded.

"There are no sentries on the Heights," the young man said flatly.

Frowning, Howe swung his legs to the ground and pulled on his boots. Standing, he pulled up his suspenders and donned his coat. Grabbing his elaborate headpiece, he led the way out of the tent and stood staring up the long muddy hill toward the town. His sharp gaze roamed the walls and then he grabbed his orderly's shoulder. "Run to wake my staff. Tell them I want their men ready to march immediately."

Less than an hour later, the British Army pushed into Brooklyn Heights. At first, the lead soldiers went cautiously, expecting a rebel around every corner. But their mystification grew as they only found deserted streets and alleyways.

No more than an hour after they entered the town, a messenger returned on the run to the General. "They're gone, sir!" the soldier gasped. "All of the bloody Americans are gone! Crossed the river in the dark, they did!"

Howe's jaw tightened and his pallid face flushed with anger. He'd thought them caught, trapped, with nowhere to go, only to have them slip out of his grasp. Wordlessly, he turned away and swung up into the saddle of his black steed and then set the animal at a walk up the mud-slick hill. When he got into the town, he continued to the back gate and the lane down to the dock, where he stared at the river and saw British gunboats rounding the headland, slowly making their way upriver to blockade the Heights. Too late. He and his brother were both too late. His gaze shifted to Manhattan. So close and yet ... he had thirty thousand men to decamp from Long Island, and the Americans were no longer boxed in. For all he knew, they'd already taken flight.

Grimacing, he muttered, "Well, at least I have them on the run."

* * *

Awakened by another sharp rap on his door hours later, Blair groggily sat up in bed and then hastily hauled the sheet up to his chin to cover his nakedness when the pert little maid hustled right on in. "Good afternoon, sir," she said crisply as she sped across the gleaming wood floor. Briskly, she dumped the water in the basin out the back window and gave it a swipe and picked up the empty jug and used linens, leaving fresh towels and steaming hot water in another large pitcher. "Master James will join you in the kitchen in fifteen minutes," she told him just before she closed the door behind her.

Blair blinked and raked his hair back from his face. Feeling better for the rest, he slid out of bed, once again used the chamber pot, and then hastily washed and shaved himself, scraping his hunting knife over his soap-lathered face. After pulling on his clothes and tying his hair back with a leather thong, he quickly straightened the bed and glanced at his pack, powder horn, and musket. Seemed a bit much to cart all that to the kitchen, but Jim might want to leave as soon as they'd eaten. So he gathered up his possessions and stood for a moment, just looking around the room, memorizing it, certain he'd never see the like of it, or ever sleep so comfortably, in his life again.

Still, he thought, looking at the heavy paintings on the wall of ships at sea, and all the knick-knacks that were pretty but useless, the ornate furniture, it would tie a man down and leave him feeling boxed in. He wondered if that was why Jim didn't appear to live here anymore. The man he was coming to think of as a friend seemed too humble for such surroundings and too vital to be caged.

He went downstairs and retraced the way along the corridor toward the distant kitchen. As he neared the chamber that contained the wealth of books, he heard taut voices and he slowed, recognizing them.

"Jimmy, I'm just worried about you, son!" William exclaimed. "You could have been killed on Long Island! This war is insanity, and you know it. The revolutionaries haven't got a hope against the might of the British."

"We've been over this before," Jim replied, sounding both annoyed and tired. "We see this country - hell, the world - in different ways. Whatever happens, you'll be secure, but there are a great many people who are being badly hurt by the unfair taxation. Besides, we're better able to govern ourselves than are strangers way over on the other side of the world."

William sighed. "Well, you're a man and entitled to make your own decisions. I hope your choices won't cost your life." There was a pause and then Blair heard him add in a hopeful tone, "How long will you be visiting?"

"Probably another night," Jim said, and Blair heard the scrape of a chair so, not wishing to be caught eavesdropping, he hastened along the corridor. And then he remembered that Jim could hear his heartbeat, apparently heard it all the time, and he flushed. Jim would know he'd been listening in the hallway. Slowing his steps, he paused and waited for his Captain. When Jim and his father came out of the study, Jim quirked a knowing brow at him, but William Ellison seemed surprised to see him. Blair figured the man had forgotten he was even in the house.

"Good day, Ca ... uh, Jim, Mr. Ellison," he said politely, looking from Jim to his father. "I thank you for your fine hospitality, sir." Seeming distracted, the elder Ellison nodded and half-lifted a hand, as if to wave off Sandburg's gratitude.

"Blair," Jim greeted him. "We'll get something to eat from Sally, and then go over to Headquarters." He didn't look back as he walked away from his father.

But Blair saw the aching sorrow and discouragement on the older man's face as he watched his son, and the defeated way his shoulders sagged as he turned away.

* * *

When they reached Headquarters, they learned that squads of men had been sent out across the small city to scavenge supplies for their retreat. Washington was with his senior officers, and they all stood around a map of the colonies that was nailed lightly into the wall, each arguing his perspective on what they should do next. His head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back, the General listened to their opposing views, quietly thinking about how best to save his nascent Army. Tension was high; everyone in the war room knew that the British gunboats had begun the evacuation of the British from Long Island. The size of the beast was their salvation: it would take days to evacuate the British off Long Island and transport them back to their main camp on Staten Island. When he noticed Ellison and Sandburg had arrived, he left the half-circle of colonels and waved them to the far side of the large room.

"When will you hear from your scouts?" he asked, needing their vital information before making a final decision on deployment.

"Hopefully, later this evening," Jim told him. "Tomorrow, if they ran into trouble."

"Fair enough," Washington sighed and rubbed his chin as he glanced back at the map. "What are your views, Jim?"

Lightly chewing the inside of his lip, Jim pondered the options. "North," he said. "I'd go north. If we go much farther west, we'll get too far from our own supply lines. We can lead the redcoats into the wilderness, buy ourselves some time to get this Army into shape, and still be within striking distance of the towns and ports where the British are most likely to billet, like Boston." He turned to Blair and quirked a brow, inviting his input.

"Either way," the younger man added, "we'll need to make some contact with the Indians in the area, hopefully to win their support but at least to keep them neutral. If they actively join with the British, we could be in real trouble - and the Algonquins in the north, and the Mohawk around the lakes, are already more aligned with the British than the French. The Huron, though ... hard to say which way they'll jump."

"Good points, both of you," the General mused. Sighing, he rolled his shoulders; despite his certainty that the revolution would succeed, he still wasn't at all sure he was the man to lead the armed resistance. He was a farmer, an armchair philosopher, but not a warrior by inclination. "Well," he added, "all things being equal when your scouts return, and given all I've heard of everyone's views this morning, north it will be." But his eyes clouded and he frowned, unconsciously rubbing his hands together. "Our comrades in the south will fare better than we when the snow starts to fly," he murmured unhappily as he turned away.

"He's right, Jim," Blair murmured as they left the war room. "The men are _not_ equipped for winter survival."

Jim nodded soberly. The cold might well defeat them faster than the British ever could. "That's months away, Chief," he muttered, leading the way out of the building and into the bright August sunlight. "First we have to survive the next few days."

* * *

Joel arrived first, in the early evening. He knocked politely on the kitchen's back door, and Sally hustled him inside, immediately sitting him down and plying him with food. From the way he ravenously tucked in, Jim and Blair understood he'd been some long time without food.

"Admiral Howe has moved two gunboats into the river on the west side - won't be no slipping past 'im in the night this time," Joel told them. Jim nodded, not surprised. The British were the most powerful military force on the face of the earth, their navy ruled the seas, which made their escape from Long Island all the more incredible. Though he said nothing, he wondered if the rumours about Admiral Richard Howe were true, that he was sympathetic to the colonials. The man could make an argument about not sailing down a fog-shrouded narrow river in the dark but, by rights, he should have been blockading Brooklyn Heights to prevent exactly what had transpired.

Simon stumbled in about an hour later, gray with exhaustion, heaving to catch his breath. He'd had the longer run and the big man had evidently maintained a relentless pace. "It's clear," he puffed. "At least when I watched. Two gunboats sailed past but none are watching the bridge. No redcoats anywhere."

Jim clapped him on the shoulder. "Rest while you can, eat. I doubt we'll still be in the city when the dawn comes." Leaving his friends to Sally's diligent ministrations, he and Blair jogged out of the house and back to Headquarters to report to the General.

The word flowed back out immediately to the company commanders. Rouse your men, organize the transports - depart when ready to the north, through Harlem and beyond, into the hills.

"That means we go now, Junior," Jim told Blair. "We need to be out ahead, scouting the way."

They passed the Ellison Mansion on the way north through the city, and stopped briefly. "I'll tell the men, Jim," Blair hastened to volunteer. "Why don't you let your father know we're on our way?"

His features flattening, his gaze hard, Jim replied with deep anger, "He might report our movements to the enemy. I can't risk it."

Blair's brows furrowed and he shrugged, but decided to speak up. "You know him better than I do," he allowed. "But, I don't think he'd ever take any chances with your life. He thinks we're crazy, taking foolish risks for a fruitless cause. But he loves you, Jim. He'd never betray you."

"And you know this how, exactly, after meeting the man exactly twice when he scarcely acknowledged your presence?" Jim growled irritably.

"I'm a stranger - an odd-looking, blue-eyed Jewish Indian who doesn't fit in his world," Blair argued. "Why should he pay any attention to me? You're his son. I saw him this morning when you strode away from him. He was hurting, Jim. Hurting bad."

Huffing an impatient sigh, deep down very much wanting to believe Sandburg's assessment of his father, Jim hesitated.

"Who taught you your integrity?" Blair pushed, his voice very low, almost a hiss. "Who taught you to see through your commitments? To never give up, no matter what? Or even how to assess your rivals, your enemies?"

"My father," Jim returned, his tone icy with the cold memories of his childhood.

"Then he taught you well," Blair said flatly. "You're ... you're a good decent man, but you've got the strength and ruthlessness we need in leaders engaged in a desperate venture. If he prepared you for this, you owe him a debt of gratitude. We all do."

"Fine, fine," Jim capitulated, not having the time or the patience to argue further. "I'll meet you back at the gate in ten minutes."

Jim found his father having a solitary dinner in the family dining room. The older man jumped to his feet, clearly wanting his son to join him.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Jim told him, though his tone held little warmth. "I just came to let you know we're moving out tonight."

Stricken, William moved around the table and gripped his son's arm. "You be careful, Jimmy," he insisted, his voice unsteady. "You be damned careful, son."

Relenting, wondering if maybe Sandburg had the right of it, Jim allowed a small smile. "I'll be careful, and when I can, I'll send word."

William stood awkwardly, gazing at him with eyes growing red with unshed tears. He lifted an arm helplessly and Jim, unable to deny the desire, in truth, needing the same thing, moved forward and they embraced tightly. "I'll pray for you, Jimmy," William rasped brokenly. "I want you to come home, hopefully in one piece. I love you, son."

When Jim pulled away and strode down the corridor to let himself out the front door, he felt confused. That hug had contained more affection than he'd known for nearly the whole of his life. But he also felt the better for it.

Blair was waiting by the gate, and they loped along torch-lit streets, heading north.

* * *

They jogged past heavily-laden carts and wagons, and all the streets and lanes heading north were already crowded with hundreds of soldiers, bedrolls over their shoulders and muskets in hand or slung across their chests. They moved swiftly, their steps light, all of them heartened by their narrow escape from the British, and anxious to put more distance between them, at least for now. The time would come to fight, a time when their leaders would choose the ground. Some sang or whistled along with the fifes as they marched to the beat of the snare drums. Word had gone out and all in the city knew that the British were decamping from Long Island, and many of the townspeople came out to cheer them along, or waved from their upper windows.

But shouts from behind caught their attention as mounted messengers approached from the rear, shouting out that Washington was ordering the men already on the move to stop at Harlem Heights, and to go no farther until they received further orders. The rest were going to remain in Manhattan. Surprised, Jim flagged one of the young soldiers down, and the lad, no more than sixteen pulled up beside them.

"What's happening?" Ellison demanded. "Why the stop in Harlem?"

"It's Admiral Howe, sir," the young private replied earnestly, flushed and panting a little in excitement. "He wants a parley. Maybe they're going to surrender to General Washington!"

Jim snorted and looked away, his gaze taking in hundreds of men who were in retreat. "I doubt that, lad," he replied starkly. The British were trying to hold them close, that was all, until the redcoats and Hessians were ready to take another go at them. Staying within their reach was foolhardy, but he could hardly say so, or even disparage the General for wishful thinking to the young soldier.

"When's this meet to take place?" he asked instead.

"Admiral Howe suggests Staten Island, on the eleventh, Captain. He's promised no more attacks between now and then."

"I'll bet he has," Jim remarked sarcastically. It took time to get tens of thousands of men and a whole armada of gunboats in place, time to plan a battle strategy. His lips thin and closed tight against words he couldn't say aloud, he nodded and slapped the rump of the mare, sending the soldier off to complete his duty of slowing the Continental Army's retreat to safety.

"This isn't good news, is it?" Blair murmured, frowning in thought.

"The side that's winning, and that holds all the power, doesn't usually sue for peace, Chief," Jim grated caustically. "No, I don't think this is good news at all." He sighed and scratched his cheek. He'd heard rumours that, for weeks, Washington had been refusing to meet with Howe, refusing even to accept messages that weren't appropriately addressed with his formal Commander in Chief title. Why was he agreeing now? Was it just another example of procrastination and uncertainty on Washington's part? Or was the General angling for time to regroup?

"What do you want to do? Keep heading north or wait here until the eleventh?"

Chewing absently on his inner lip, Jim thought about it. "We've got time between now and the talks to scout out the north a bit, maybe get some ideas for the General, in case ... well, in case this is all a setup."

"Works for me," Blair replied congenially, and they resumed their journey. "It'll give us more time to work on your senses, too," he added with a teasing smile, knowing full well what Jim would think about that idea.

Exercising massive restraint, Ellison confined himself to rolling his eyes and then giving the kid a playful cuff on the back of his head. Blair darted away, laughing, his eyes sparkling with bright mischief.

Jim chuckled, too, then, and his dark mood lightened. Only later did it occur to him that it had been the first time he'd heard the kid laugh with such abandon. Even the memory made him smile. That laughter was rich and warm, replete with joy, and very, very contagious.

* * *

Making good time, they arrived ahead of the messengers on horseback and the bedraggled troops marching to the desultory beat of the drums. The messengers had gotten slowed down by officers wanting to know what was going on, and the confusion that resulted about whether to carry on or stay in Manhattan. They stopped briefly to talk with the Marblehead Mariners who were standing ready to assist in a further retreat from Harlem Heights, if that proved necessary and most believed it was inevitable. After informing the men that plans had changed, at least for the moment, they climbed the Heights and paced off the rolling landscape.

Having grown up in Manhattan and on the farm on Long Island, Jim had been there many times in the past, but Blair hadn't seen the area before. They took note of the broad plateau and the cover it offered for the movement and engagement of troops, as well as The Hollow, a sunken sector of ground - a place to conceal troops but not a good place to be caught and surrounded. They also reconnoitered routes of retreat. Like it or not, the Continental Army did not have the skills or experience to confront the British Lion head-on. Jim shook his head and sighed, while Blair bit his lip as he bowed his head and shrugged. Both were well aware that the war would not be won easily, nor would it be won here, where the British could easily overwhelm them simply by sailing boatload after boatload of redcoats up the river. Descending to the ferry landing, they accepted a lift across the water by one of the Mariners.

As the sun began to set in the west, they chose a campsite that overlooked the river and was sheltered by trees from the wind. They gathered deadfall for their fire, and Blair rummaged in his pack for the food Sally had wrapped for them and insisted he bring along, not that he'd fought the offer. Jim shook out their bedrolls and dropped to lie on his side, propped on his right elbow as the wound in his left arm was still tender. Blair sat Indian-style on the other side of the fire. As night fell, they munched on fried chicken, raw carrots and peapods, cheese, pickles and soft, fresh rolls Sally had liberally lashed with sweet butter. Stars brightened overhead, filling the night sky, and the quarter moon rose leisurely from the horizon.

"Will Simon and the others follow behind us now that the orders have changed, or wait until we return?" Blair asked.

"I think they'll wait," Jim replied laconically, trusting his men to use their best judgment. "They've been pushing pretty hard and could use the rest time; Simon and Joel will know to take advantage of that."

His lips twitching in amusement, Blair refrained from commenting that the others weren't the only ones who had been pushing hard and getting little sleep in the recent past. Tossing the chicken bones into the flames, he stretched out and looked up at the night sky, wondering how much more, or how much more clearly, Jim could see the stars blazing above them. But, not wanting to risk Jim falling into his sense of sight and the headache that he was learning invariably accompanied such moments, he didn't ask. Instead, he enjoyed the peace of the silence, the tranquility of being away from crowds of people, the noise and foul smells of the town ... and the respite of knowing there'd be no battles to fight for the next week or so, at least. Pulling his hair free of the leather thong, he rested his head on his laced fingers and palms and simply relaxed.

An easy, companionable silence fell between them and he had nearly drifted to sleep when Jim admitted quietly, "I heard what you told Simon the other day. In the barn."

"I thought you might have," he replied with a yawn, seemingly unconcerned. Rolling onto his side to face Jim, squinting against the flickering flames between them, he went on, "You've been generally pretty solicitous of me and extraordinarily patient with the sensory work, ever since. It's okay to tell me if I push too hard, or if you need to take a respite."

"Hmm," Jim mumbled, grimacing at the thought of being so transparent.

"Jim ...." Blair began, and hesitated. But then he drew a breath and continued, "My Ma died a long time ago. It was hard at the time - very hard - but lots and lots of people have hard lives, maybe even most people; especially on the frontier, but even in the towns when they're poor and haven't enough to eat. I never starved. The Cherokee were good to me in their way and I learned a great deal from them. I'm strong and healthy and free. There's no need to feel you have to coddle me or ... or feel sorry for me. There was certainly no need to risk a confrontation with your father over where I slept - you know I didn't need to be treated like a guest." He grinned impishly and added, "Though I have to say, that bed was the closest thing to paradise that I could possibly imagine."

Surprised into a chuckle, Jim scrubbed his face with his palms, feeling fairly caught. This kid didn't miss anything. "Fighting with my father has been a way of life for more than twenty years - you just happened to be a handy reason," he returned, sounding weary and distant and he frowned with perplexity, remembering the hug.

"What're the hard feelings about, if you don't mind me asking," Blair asked carefully.

Sitting up to toss a few more sticks into their fire, using another to stir up the ashes, so that burning flakes swirled into the air, Jim took his time answering. Sighing, he finally replied, "We've just never gotten along well. He's ... his whole world is trade, competition and profit and he's never understood my need to find out what's beyond the horizon. And ... well, he's never wanted to acknowledge my freakish senses or, worse, the fits I've had since I was a kid."

"Your senses aren't freakish and you don't have fits," Blair retorted firmly, also sitting up. Scratching his stubbled cheek, he mused, "So ... the senses don't come from him."

"No," Jim responded, his voice low. "My younger brother doesn't have them, either. I think my mother may have suffered from them. She, uh, she left us, the city, when I was seven; went back to her family's estate in Maryland. Said she 'couldn't abide' the noise and the stench." He looked up at the sky. "She killed herself less than a year later."

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," Blair sighed, regretting that he'd prodded such memories. His throat tightened as he thought about what she must have endured, and she must have missed her boys and felt so bereft without them ... and probably felt an unbearable burden of guilt for having left them. And then a horrible thought curdled his blood. "You didn't ever ... I'm mean, you wouldn't ...."

Turning his face away from the fire's light, Jim shrugged. "A lot of people have believed I'm cursed or something," he finally replied, his voice dry and rough. He bowed his head and said softly, "Until you came along, I didn't know ... I thought I was the only ...."

"The only person like you," Blair supplied, sounding sad, aching with empathy he didn't think Jim would want. "You're not. But you are rare and very, very special. Your senses are not a curse, Jim. Or, at least, they don't have to be, if you accept them and work with them instead of resent them and fight them."

"Very, very special, huh?" he echoed, striving to inject wry humour into his voice and not quite managing the feat. Sighing, he said, "Maybe, with your help ... maybe. Too soon to tell."

"You're doing really well, Jim. You've already gained a lot more control," Blair encouraged. "You're going to be fine." Jim nodded but didn't say anything more, so Sandburg didn't know if his companion was convinced or just wanted to talk about something else. Casting around for another subject when Jim's silence lengthened, and hoping he didn't stumble into another swamp, he asked, "Where's your brother now?"

"Steven works the family farm on Long Island," he replied, rolling his shoulders and absently supporting his wounded arm. "I'd been to see him, to negotiate for his harvest on behalf of the Army. T'was on the way back that I encountered General Howe and his redcoats."

"You think he's okay? I mean, what with all that happened over there?"

"Should be," Jim said evenly, not sounding worried. "The British don't make war on civilians, though his crop may have been requisitioned to feed that horde."

Blair thought about that, about how different the culture was from the one he'd grown up within. "I guess they figure it's not gentlemanly or something," he mused.

"Guess so," Jim agreed, but shook his head. "Beats me, though, how a people who fought and won their own right to representation can deny the same right to their families, just because we're a few generations removed and live over here."

"Maybe that's why they haven't pressed their advantage, at least not yet," Blair reflected. "Maybe a lot of them think this war is wrong."

"I guess we'll find out," Jim replied stoically, lying back down and closing his eyes.

"Yeah," Blair murmured, looking at him for a long moment and then up into the distant, untouchable sky. "Yeah, I guess we will."

* * *

They roamed the countryside to the village of White Plains, about twenty-five miles north of the city, and then scouted around the surrounding three hills for defensible positions. Nearly ten thousand men and innumerable camp followers were a whole lot to feed and even harder to hide. The men would need time to drill to become real soldiers, and not just a motley collection of hunters and trappers, craftsmen, clerks, and merchants. At least the hunters and trappers knew something about survival, and how to prime and shoot the muskets they carried.

After briefly debating which way to wander next, they decided against east because that would take them ever closer to the coast and the British. So, west it was, eventually along the river into Pennsylvania. And then, they cut back cross-country, hurrying now, jogging in a ground-eating lope they could both maintain all day. Colour was beginning to show on the trees, the vibrant greens turning to yellow, orange and, here and there, a hint of the flaming crimson that would paint the hills in the weeks to come. The days were growing noticeably shorter as darkness crowded out the summer, and fall's crisp chill breath on the wind in the dawn's early light hinted of the coming winter. They kept to the woodland, skirting around villages, even tiny crossroads' settlements and farms where the harvest was nearly over, much of the land stripped and bereft of their verdant crops. From time to time, Jim put out a hand to stop Blair, and touched a finger to his lips - and then he'd point at a magnificent stag drinking by a bubbling stream, or a pack of wolves loping over the brow of a nearby hill. Blair would always smile widely and nod mutely, as if he understood and shared the joy of the wilderness and the creatures within it. But, occasionally, the swift gesture for silence was accompanied with an urgent push to the ground, and they'd huddle in the shadows while a hunting party of Shawnee roamed past.

Throughout their journey, Blair took what seemed like every opportunity to work with Jim on his senses, from hooking vision to sight, to hearing a songbird's warble on a far, distant branch, to examining tiny rodent tracks in the ground and trying to determine from the consistency of the semi-dried mud how long since the light, barely discernible prints had been made. Blair had him sniffing the air constantly, until he could block out other scents and home in on the specific type of berry Sandburg had a hankering for that particular day. But it wasn't all as taxing or annoying as Jim had feared it might be; Blair had a knack for making it all fun, a kind of game of discovery or exploration. And the kid got good at reading him, at knowing when he'd had enough and a headache threatened, until Sandburg finally scolded him strenuously for not being more in touch with his own energy. Blair emphatically told him to simply say when he'd had enough, instead of waiting until it was too much and irritation had crept into his eyes, face and voice. Though Jim couldn't say he was enjoying his senses, and still didn't wish they'd just go back to normal, he was less intimidated by them and more comfortable with each day that passed with his ability to use them in a predictable, reliable way.

At night, around the campfire as they roasted their catch of the day, sometimes fish, more often rabbit or quail or pheasant, they talked ... or, rather, Blair talked and Jim listened. Blair told him stories, like the one he'd heard from an old grandfather amongst his time with the Cherokee while the man was conversing gently with younger men, whose blood was on fire for a raid against their latest enemy. "When I was young," Blair quavered slowly, thoughtfully, mimicking the old man's voice, "I had a wolf inside of me, a wolf that hungered to hunt, raged for revenge - a wolf that was quick to anger. But I had another wolf inside me, too; one that was patient, that treasured the pack and wanted to protect it, keep it safe, not draw back danger. Those wolves, they fought all the damned time. Was wearing and sometimes I did not know which one was going to win." Blair's voice drifted off and the only sound was the crackling of the wood in the fire and the hiss of grease dripping in the flames.

"So, which wolf won?" Jim asked, turning the spit.

Grinning, Blair nodded approvingly. "That's just what the young men asked. And the elder looked piercingly at each one of them before he stood and said flatly just before he walked away, 'The one I fed'."

Sitting back on his haunches, Jim thought about that and nodded slowly. "Wise man," he murmured.

"Very wise," Blair replied, suddenly sober. Leaning forward, wrapping his arms around his knees and clasping his hands, he stared into the fire. "I thought about that story for a long, long time, Jim," he said softly. "I hated those people who stoned my mother to death. I used to dream of going back there one day to ... to kill them. I mean, she was my mother, and she didn't do anything wrong, nothing to deserve such brutality. And ... and she was all I had. But anger is like a wild, ravaging beast that really only tears you up inside. As for revenge? Well, it wouldn't bring my Ma back. I had to learn to let my anger go."

His gaze lifted to meet Jim's then, the irises so dark a blue they were mesmerizing, his face so solemn and so still, and yet so full of meaning, that Jim felt his throat thicken. Sometimes, they just talked but, sometimes, Blair told him what he was beginning to think of as 'message stories'. These stories held a deeper meaning, something Blair was trying to tell him, but also wanted him to work out for himself. And he figured this message, this lesson on life, was about his tendency to be swift to anger and the conflict between him and his Dad. Blair was telling him a lot of things; especially, that the turbulent emotions did no good and a lot of harm to oneself as well as to others, and Blair was also telling him he was lucky. He still had a father, a brother. Still had family. His own gaze fell away and he nodded, though he couldn't find the words to say he'd heard even the unspoken message.

Other times, Sandburg entertained him with anecdotes about what he'd read about other places in the world, and other cultures in other times. His face would light up, his eyes dancing and his hands flashing as he described some faraway, long ago land, his words falling faster and faster, with bright eagerness and wonder. And then he'd sigh and shake his head; murmur that he'd sure like to see that place some day. The ruins of the Parthenon high on the mount in Athens. The pyramids in Egypt. The hanging gardens in Babylon, that didn't even exist anymore. The Roman forum. Jerusalem. Sometimes, Blair sounded almost homesick, as if he was pining to return to places that haunted him because he'd loved those places and times so well, and Jim found himself wondering if Blair's spirit was one that some people believed got born again and again. But then, he'd shake himself and tell himself he was being whimsical, foolish. You got one life, and that was all you got. When it was over, it was over. The kid just had a good imagination, that was all. But he was fun to watch and listen to as darkness fell and the wind blew soft through the rustling leaves.

Without hardly realizing it, the seed of their friendship was planted in those days, rooting solidly in their lives, and growing swiftly, sure and strong, as their comfort in one another's company grew. Jim's trust, never easily given, was placed in Blair's care. The kid was just so good, so inventive when it came to his senses, so matter-of-fact about them that his confidence in Jim's abilities was both comforting and reassuring. And that kid could hunt with the best of them. He had an eagle eye of his own and rarely missed even the most difficult shots when they were hunting for their supper; and he was as accurate and fast with the hunting knife in his belt, or with the bow and arrows he'd crafted to keep his hands busy at night. Though he wasn't a big man, he was strong and resilient, tireless ... and good-humoured even in the drenching rain of a storm that overtook them one day, despite how much he bitched about hating to be wet or chilled, water dripping from the ends of the leather fringes and swirling in a cloud of drops whenever he gestured with his hands, creating interesting rainbow effects in the air that Jim found captivating.

Despite the grumbling about the weather, though, when Jim thought about it, the kid didn't bitch seriously about anything; just seemed to take things as they came and generally find them interesting or, at least, challenging. And Jim liked the fact that Blair was always thinking, planning ahead, even in small ways, like how he saved and rolled the skins of the animals they caught -- including one of a big black bear they'd found dead after a battle with some other animal. Ellison remembered their first night after they'd hunted and cooked their meat, and had eaten their fill. Patiently, while he drilled Jim on his senses and, later, told one of his stories, he scraped the skin clean and set it to smoke over the fire to drive out or kill lice and ticks. After a time over the smoke, and still keeping up his chatter about one thing or another, he soaked it in the nearby stream, cleaning the skin carefully with the roots and herbs he mixed with fat to boil into soap. And then he did something Jim had never seen or heard of before. Blair cracked the skulls of the animals and scooped out their brains, blending them with water into a pink pasty emulsion he heated gently over the fire. And then he carefully worked the diluted brain mixture into the hides. When Jim curled his lip in revulsion, Blair smiled in amusement.

"What?" he challenged mildly. "You'd rather we do this the white man's way, pissing on the hides and rubbing in excrement? I wanted to puke when I heard that's how you traditionally cure and soften leather." He shuddered. "Imagine wearing that on your skin. And it's no wonder your leather goods wear out so quickly." His hands continuing to knead the mixture patiently into the hide, he went on, his tone almost reverent. "This way is better ... softens the hides better and preserves them longer. And is more respectful of the animal, using what they were to keep them strong and supple, as they were in life."

"There are times, Chief, when you sound more Indian than white," Jim said flatly.

"Just because the tradition is Indian, Jim, doesn't make it wrong or inferior," Blair retorted, his eyes flashing. "We can all learn from one another. If we're willing to ... if our minds aren't closed to anything that's different."

Feeling chastened, Jim shrugged and turned away, though in moments like that he felt as though his friend was some alien creature, someone he didn't understand at all, and maybe never would.

Blair finished his work, rolled the hide and left it to warm by the fire. Later, he washed it thoroughly again before hanging it from a branch to dry, occasionally rising to stretch it carefully. In the morning, when it was time to move on, he rolled them if they were still damp and too big to hang on his belt or around his shoulders to dry while they traveled. Every night after a hunt, it was the same ritual of activities, wasting nothing, preparing for the coming winter. Once the skins were completely dry, in the evening around the campfire, he built a tripod of sticks and, one night when he was working on a skin where he'd kept the fur intact, he cajoled an old cotton shirt from Jim. "Smoke discolours the fur," he explained softly as he worked, his hands stroking the rich softness. "It's respectful to let the natural beauty remain, if we can."

After carefully stitching the shirt to the edges of skins that still had their fur attached, he rolled the fur side to keep it away from the smoke as much as possible, and then hung the bundle from the tripod, over the hot coals that he kept burning low and occasionally sprinkled with water, so that only smoke and not flames reached the dangling leather. As he worked, he explained that smoking the leathers would make them dry better after being wet, leaving them supple.

Blair's curing of hides became part of their evening's activities. Every time they stopped, he pegged them in the sun to dry or smoked them over the fire. The disgusting smell of the fresh and curing skins hung around them like a persistent cloud that left Jim feeling vaguely nauseous. When he complained one night about the stink, Sandburg just blithely told him to 'turn it down' and then said, wryly, that he planned to make more moccasins because he had a feeling they were going to need _lots_ of moccasins, and maybe fur-lined vests for winter. Jim didn't say anything at the time, but he'd noticed that Blair's feet didn't seem to ache the way his did at the end of a long day, and he was beginning to envy the kid his footwear. And they both knew that bearskin might be all that kept them alive on the trail during the freezing nights that weren't all that far off. Before long, he was helping with the work, pretending not to notice how pleased Blair was by his interest and his skill in cleaning the carcasses. Smiling to himself, he figured enhanced sight and a delicacy of touch could be used for more than making war.

When they got back to civilization right on schedule, the eve of September 10th, and slowed their pace in the busy streets and lanes of Manhattan, Jim unconsciously drew him close and walked with an arm slung around his shoulders. He couldn't explain it, really, but touching Sandburg or being touched by him seemed to make the noises and the stench of the city more bearable. He'd gotten past consciously thinking about all the reasons that he liked the kid; he just knew that the warm spot in his heart was as strong for Sandburg as it was for anyone in his life, or even stronger, including his own brother. Mostly, given how much he depended upon Blair's help with his senses, and how closely they had to work together, he was just really glad they got along so well.

* * *

The discussions on Staten Island the next day didn't last long. The British, confident that their show of overwhelming strength and superiority would cool the revolutionary ardor, expected a complete surrender of hostilities and were prepared to give no ground or concessions in return. When he heard, Jim wasn't surprised and he still wondered if it hadn't been simply a ruse to keep the Washington and his troops within easy reach, but he hoped it was simply British arrogance and that they hadn't used the time as he and Sandburg had, to scout the route of retreat from Manhattan.

Badly torn, reluctant to move far from the stockpile of supplies in the armories in the city, fearful of losing such precious goods to the British, Washington nevertheless began slowly moving his Army out of the city and established his field headquarters on Harlem Heights. His men could not withstand a full-out assault; nor did he wish to place the civilian populace at risk. He needed time that he didn't have to get his Army organized, time to train his troops, time ... but there was no time. There was only the fearful might of the British and the colonial determination to be free of their yoke. At least Harlem Heights provided more suitable ground, if and when it would come to a fight, than the city's streets and lanes.

On the fifteenth, the British landed at Kip's Bay and began their own march toward Harlem Heights along the east side of the island, while the colonials continued moving up the west side. Washington was feeling boxed in and anxious about being driven, step by step, out of New York and into the wilds beyond. On the morning of the sixteenth, while out doing his own reconnoitering of the area, he and the one hundred and fifty rangers with him ran into the British light infantry in the narrow ground of the Hollow Way. Having no choice but to retreat from the overwhelming numbers they'd encountered, he and his men fled back to the plateau.

Behind them, they heard the contemptuous bugling call of the fox hunt, the call that said the fox was flagging and running away. The taunting notes of the horn were picked up by others, and heard on the Heights.

"Those bastards," Jim cursed, his eyes narrowing as he studied the forces arrayed below.

"What?" Blair asked tensely as he crouched by his friend on the lookout point, unable to see what was happening in the distance but well aware from the sounds of distant shouting, shots and the horn-blowing that the fight was fast coming toward them.

"The fox horn, Chief," Ellison grated angrily. "It's the call of the hunt; they're mocking us, saying we're helpless foxes on the run, not men, not warriors."

Around them, enraged rumbles rose from the ranks of men who had been ready to flee, to retreat once again as soon as the orders came. But they'd be damned if they'd run now, like helpless foxes before the hounds and 'gentlemen' on horseback. This was their ground, their land, their country and they would not be chased like vermin from that hill.

His mount blowing hard from the climb, Washington rode up onto the plateau, the rangers that had been with him now providing a rearguard delaying force, as best they could, against the thousands of British that were swarming behind them. Yelling sharply for his commanders, he waved them to him urgently. When one of his officers hastened forward asking if the word was to fall back, the General cursed and, instead, hastily ordered his companies to deploy across the rolling plateau, to seek cover until the British were drawn forward and surrounded, and then they were to attack. A messenger was sent flying to hasten the men still en route to the Heights from Manhattan. Washington kept a small force with him while the others moved into position and, when the rangers fell back and the British reached the uplands, he drew them after him, luring them further and further onto the wide plateau, smiling grimly now as he heard again the call of the hunt.

The British hounds were about to find out that these colonial foxes could bite.

When he turned, his saber in the air, his men turned with him, and his forces struck from either side. The British were caught flat-footed, startled and undone by the unexpected resistance and attack. Though their numbers were superior, they were surrounded and, after vicious exchanges of fire, their commanders ordered them to fall back. The colonial forces, emboldened by the success of their strategy, still enraged by the bugling that had assumed their cowardice, pressed forward relentlessly. Smoke filled the air and cannon belched fire. Redcoats shouted in confusion, and the Americans bellowed back in fury. Men on both sides yelped or screamed with the agony of their wounds; some died where they stood, dropping like unstrung marionettes to the ground.

"Jim! Jim!" Sandburg shouted over the din of battle when he turned and spotted Ellison crouched in pain after a cannon ball exploded close by. Some distance away, well aware that Jim was in trouble but too far to help, Simon and Joel cast anxious glances their way, while continuing to fire as often as they could reload and shoot.

Blair launched himself across the short space between them, tackling the Captain and rolling him to the ground behind tumbled rocks, covering Jim's body with his own, even as British lancers fired upon their position. "Turn down your hearing!" he urged, pitching his voice low to be heard, his tone commanding. Seeming oblivious to the tug of a whining ball of shot and a sharp burn along his upper arm, he turned and aimed his musket, firing to forestall a better aimed attack.

Startled surprise at the swiftly and selflessly protective action suffused the faces of their two older comrades, and Simon grunted, "I'll be damned."

Joel glanced at him and muttered approvingly as he again primed his musket, "That boy's got guts."

Pressed to the earth by Blair's body, eyes scrunched shut in agony at all the sounds tormenting him, Jim nodded jerkily, agreeing with them, and then he was wrestling with the spyglass in his mind, frantically twisting it to turn down the blistering chaotic noise that blasted through his ears. A breath, another ... and then his shoulders loosened and he squinted up at the kid.

"You okay?" Blair demanded as he grabbed Jim's rifle and then fired it, too, his deadly aim wounding the British marksmen, who retreated further back along the plateau.

"Yeah," Ellison gasped. Blair slid off him and he pushed himself to his knees, reclaiming his weapon while Sandburg reloaded and primed his own. "How 'bout you?" he demanded, eying the splash of blood darkening Blair's torn sleeve.

"Yeah, just a scratch, no problem. Best keep sound way down until this is done," Blair suggested hurriedly. Nodding, Jim led the way from their temporary shelter and they joined their compatriots in chasing the redcoats off the mount.

The British did not give up easily; they fought for every foot, but still found themselves forced back. Down the long hillside, dropping into gullies or behind fallen logs, they fired back and, when the infuriated colonial warriors overran their positions, they used their bayonets with deadly precision. But still the Americans kept coming after them, driving them back and farther back, into the Hollow Way.

The battle raged for hours, and more of the Continental Army's force, three thousand more, joined the battle as they arrived from Manhattan. Thirty Americans and fourteen British, including two of their senior officers, died that day; more than two hundred men suffered wounds. Six hours after the first shots were fired, though his forces would have fought on, Washington called them back. He didn't know how Ellison knew with such certainty that the British had landed more men, thousands more, but he believed him. And he knew, despite the courage of his own men, he could not let them stay and be slaughtered by a force that, in the end, badly outnumbered them. So he ordered them back to the Heights they'd held, to the ground they'd claimed as their own.

And when they stood upon that ground, panting for breath, grimy with sweat and dirt, many nursing wounds, dozens of their compatriots lying dead around them, they stood grimly proud. They'd reclaimed their dignity after their panicked retreat on Long Island; they were no longer abjectly terrified of the enemy. The Continental Army had just won its first pitched battle against the mighty British Lion.

* * *

But winning a battle didn't mean they'd won the war, or that they could win it on that ground and Washington knew it. Ultimately, they were no better positioned on Harlem Heights than they'd been in Brooklyn ... and the bitter reality of what had grown to nearly two hundred gunboats and thirty thousand British and Hessian troops had not changed. Though he sorely regretted giving up his foothold in New York, and all the supplies he'd have to leave behind, he had to move his forces to a safer, more open location, where they'd have room to maneuver and not be hemmed in by the Hudson and East rivers. Biting the bullet, having no real choice, he grudgingly ordered a total evacuation of Manhattan, and began to move his force across the river.

The British moved into the city on their heels, but their own time there was brief. A devastating fire broke out just after midnight on the twenty-first of September, destroying vast sections of the town. Nearly five hundred houses, the buildings the British had planned to use for the billeting of their force, went up in flames.

From Harlem Heights the molten glow of the voracious fire filled the night and stained the dark sky.

"My God," Jim gasped, squinting to focus his gaze in an effort to determine what part of the city was burning. Fear bloomed in his belly that his father and Sally might be in its conflagration.

Blair gaped and felt breathless at such fiery destruction. Fire was the hungry one, the appetite that ate and ate until there was nothing left or until water, the comforter, assuaged it. His chest felt tight as he scanned the sky and the brighter heat below and he wondered if ... if the family he'd never known was down there, trapped in the inferno. He'd clung to a deep, secret hope that one day he might find that family, that they'd want him, be glad he'd finally found his way back to them but what if ...? What if there was no one left to find, no home however mythical to return to? Was he truly so alone in the world? Swallowing hard, remembering himself, his duty, he clasped Jim's arm. "What do you see?" he asked, his voice tight, nearly cracking from strain.

"It's down in the south end of the city, burning to the west, I think," Jim replied soberly, blinking and rubbing his eyes. "Dad and Sally should be okay."

Ashamed that he'd not even thought of them, Blair flushed and bowed his head. "That's good, Jim. I'm glad."

"Doesn't help those poor people who are losing all they have," he replied disconsolately, and then with more anger, "I wonder if the British did this, to punish them ... us, all of us."

His gaze again lifting to the mesmerizing dance of heat on the horizon, Blair shook his head. "I doubt it," he muttered, sounding more cynical than Jim had ever heard him before. "They needed those buildings, those supplies, to billet and feed their men. If they ever do the burning, it will be on their way back to England, to punish us after we've driven them out - if we ever do. Men use fire to kill, to hurt and deprive, to express limitless anger. Maybe we did this to ourselves."

Frowning, Jim looked down at his friend. "You think Washington ordered this?" he demanded heatedly.

But Blair shook his head. "Nah. The General is trying to save this country. But men under his command? Who are jealous of leaving anything behind for the British? Who care less about life than winning? Maybe. Guess we'll never know."

A runner came for them, drawing their attention away from the burning city. Washington was planning to move out at first light, and wanted them in the vanguard, to lead the columns to White Plains.

They looked back over their shoulders at the angry sky. "War is like fire," Blair murmured. "Hungry, insatiable ... so destructive of all in its path."

"You think we're wrong to fight?" Jim asked as they made their way back to their camp, to pack up their gear.

"No," Blair replied stoically. "After a fire, a forest grows anew, stronger, more vibrant and vital, all the old deadwood cleared away, the ashes fertilizing the ground, making it healthier. This war is about clearing out the deadwood, the old ways, and letting a new country grow in its place." He paused and looked up at Jim. "Loss ... death ... death is natural, inevitable. Just ... just sometimes you lose what was precious, too, not just the deadwood. Sometimes you lose what can never be found again, won't ever be seen again."

He turned away and started rolling their blankets and filling their packs. Watching him, Jim felt as if he'd missed something. As if Blair felt he'd lost something in that fire that he'd hoped to find but now believed was forever gone. He sounded bereft and a little lost. Or maybe he was just remembering his mother and that he'd never see her again.

But then Jim remembered the Jewish quarter was south of Broadway and his expression tightened. He'd been relieved that he'd not lost family in that fire. But - Sandburg had told Simon he thought he had been born in New York. Had Blair lost family he'd never known and now never would? His throat thickened, but he remained mute in deference to his partner's clear desire to simply pack up and move on. Lending a hand, he reflected that this kid had had to pack up what little he had and move on too many times.

* * *

Furious, the British accused the Americans of having set the fire deliberately but, by then, most of Washington and his men were already slowly heading north toward White Plains. Affronted by the willful stubborn intransigence of the colonials, General Howe set off in pursuit. However, his efforts to contain Washington were frustrated at Throg's Point, where marksmen held his men back. Days later, he attempted to cut off the retreat to White Plains by landing at Pell's Point, but Colonel John Glover spotted the British gunboats that had entered Eastchester Bay overnight. He and his three hundred men fought a valiant delaying action, holding the British, driving them back briefly, and then holding them again, throughout the day, until he was forced to drop back himself. However, as the sun set, Howe gave up the pursuit ... and the remainder of Washington's main force made it to White Plains.

Further north in Quebec, the British General, John Burgoyne - often mockingly called 'Gentleman Johnny' because of his love of luxury even in the wilderness - failed in his attempt to achieve total supremacy, but did manage to drive the American boats out of Lake Champlain. However, the snow was already falling and so, rather than pursuing the colonials under Benedict Arnold's command, they retreated back north to their winter headquarters. Howe read the dispatches and shook his head. He'd thought they'd quell the revolt before winter, but the rebels were proving more obstinate than anticipated. "Damnation," he muttered, sorely aggrieved, and sighed. He wasn't completely unsympathetic to the colonials and had helped make some, if modest, gains in negotiations with the Crown before the revolution began. He'd hoped that they could be cowed, discouraged and overwhelmed without significant loss of life that would only lead to bitterness and strife in the future. Despite their orders, he and his brother both had a hard time seeing them as the enemy; more like fractious cousins. The conflict felt less like a war than an uprising of civil disobedience - at most, like a civil war, and he and Richard well knew how crippling, how devastating such conflict could be. He'd wanted them, ironically, to quit this madness of their own free will. Once again, he studied the dispatch in his hand. He and Richard had been candid with one another about their distaste for this commission, but they didn't dare discuss it with their subordinates, for it would be treasonous to suggest that such a war was short-sighted, that there might have been better ways to resolve the issues. Still, given how readily his subordinate had withdrawn for the winter, he wondered if anyone on their side was truly committed to this engagement.

He truly didn't believe Washington and his ragtag excuse for an army or the even less competent militia that supported him could possibly win their revolt. But, regretfully, he was beginning to understand that the colonies would have to be bathed in blood before they'd again submit to the rule of the distant British government.

His mouth set in a grim thin line, he gazed over the terrain and took a resolute breath. He had his orders and he knew Washington was close. If he could end it now at White Plains, well and good; if not, well, war was hell, particularly in the winter when men needed to be fed and the countryside was barren. The Continental Army was comprised of volunteers ... when they got hungry enough, volunteers often deserted to return to their homes. Perhaps the coming winter would resolve the matter once and for all. Briskly, Howe called his subordinates to him and rendered his orders for the attack that would take place on October 28th.

* * *

Having been briefed by Ellison about the hilly terrain around the village of White Plains, Washington wasted no time upon their arrival in having his men build fortifications on the two nearest hillsides. But, somehow, he didn't grasp the import of the looming flat-topped mount, Chatterson's Hill, just across the Bronx River. Jim and his men had been sent to keep on eye on Howe's approach, so weren't aware that the General had missed the strategic significance of the position. However, they hared back to give a general alarm that the advance guard of British troops had taken position up on the heights and, after a brief skirmish to drive them off, Washington belatedly realized whichever side controlled that plateau, controlled the valley. He hurriedly had cannonry hauled up its steep slope to its flat summit, and deployed sixteen hundred men to hold the site.

Howe arrived as planned, with four thousand Hessian mercenaries with him, and took up position about a mile from Washington's main force. However, immediately realizing the significance of the looming hill, he set most of his force into battle to secure it, bombarding the Americans with artillery fire, sending three companies up the slopes to root them out, and finally directing a cavalry charge - the first in the war. The militia broke under the triple assault and ran, leaving the Continental Army soldiers to battle on against staggering odds. Despite fighting valiantly, they were ultimately forced into an orderly retreat, surrendering Chatterson's Hill to the enemy.

Washington had no choice but to pull back and regroup at Castle Hill, about four miles north. Evening was quickly falling, and Howe decided not to give immediate chase and then postponed further action for two full days, indicating his intention to march again on Halloween. But the weather turned and heavy storms moved in the night of the thirtieth, making any kind of concerted action impossible.

When he finally marched his men to Washington's last known location, he found the Americans had again vanished. The wind was cold and damp as he studied the abandoned site, ignoring the suggestions of his officers about tracking the rebels. Still loathe to annihilate the colonials, he fell back upon his specific orders. Lifting a hand, he told them flatly, "Our first duty is to secure New York." He turned his force back south, to Fort Washington, where Washington had left two thousand men to safeguard the stockpiles of supplies and armament: 146 canon, 12,000 shot and shell, 2,800 muskets, and 400,000 cartridges. Howe's plan was clear to himself, if to no one else. Divested of invaluable and irreplaceable armament, forced to accept one loss after another, and faced with enduring a bitter winter, he was certain the Colonial Congress and even Washington himself would see the light and recant this notion of liberty. And if the leaders proved too stubborn and refused to quit, Howe knew as well as Washington did that his men had enlisted only until the end of the calendar year. Surely it could only be a matter of time before a goodly number deserted and the rest to refuse to re-enlist.

After all, bereft of an army, Washington could hardly continue the war.

* * *

"Sir, with respect, Fort Washington is indefensible against a concerted attack by the British," Jim argued. "We need to evacuate the site and take as much as the men can carry when they go."

Washington's lips thinned and he looked away, evidently troubled. He wasn't sure he disagreed with his trusted scout. "Colonel Greene is on site and believes differently," he replied distantly. "I trust his judgment."

Nevertheless, he took his main force to Fort Lee, located across the river in New Jersey but close enough, he hoped, to render assistance if it was needed. But, once they arrived and he looked out upon the British gunboats that had navigated the Hudson despite the obstructions sunk deliberately to prohibit their access, he realized that the situation was disastrous. The British had already surrounded Fort Washington and the American line was too thin to hold them at bay. Nor did he have the men or resources to effectively assist in confronting the full might of a determined Howe. Sick at heart, he watched Fort Washington resist bravely but ultimately surrender, and closed his eyes in grief over the fate of the two thousand men he'd just lost to the British prison ships. The loss of the armament was just as staggering in terms of their future success. Disgusted with himself for having vacillated and having doubted his initial instinct that they should have taken what they could and run while there'd been a chance, he turned away from the parapet and ordered the immediate evacuation of the equally indefensible Fort Lee. His Army would winter in New Jersey, to protect the forges and furnaces there that would fire throughout the winter to replace at least some of what had been lost.

"It's a bitter lesson," Simon rumbled to Joel, as they helped to hastily load the supply wagons, relieved to be on the move. "But he's learning. The General is definitely learning."

Joel looked around at the haggard, discouraged and disgruntled faces of the soldiers that filled the fort's open square, and hoped it wasn't too late. Disserting soldiers had been a problem all along, but he feared there'd be a whole lot more in the days and weeks ahead. "Where're we meetin' up with Jim and the young'un?" he asked as he hefted a large sack of grain into the wagon's bed.

"Washington sent them on ahead into New Jersey. But the General wants us to stay in New York, to keep an eye on the British and an ear to the ground about morale and support for the war effort."

Joel's brows arched in surprise, but then he nodded. "Make sense," he allowed. "After the last few weeks, people're gonna be wonderin' if'n it's all worth the trouble." Grinning humourlessly, he added, "An' it's not like anybody'd suspect two negras of bein' spies, ain't that right?"

Simon's lips thinned as he nodded grimly.

With the British on the march toward them, there wasn't time to take everything and fifty more cannon, piles of tents, and a thousand bags of flour the Continental Army could scarcely spare and would sorely miss were left behind.

Washington left most of the army under the command of General Lee, ordering Lee to follow him expeditiously, while he took four hundred men and moved deeper into New Jersey. But Lee was chafing under Washington's command, believing himself to be the more rightful leader by virtue of his military experience. If Washington were defeated by the British, then as the most senior general, he would move into the Commander in Chief position. So he dawdled, remaining a good fifty miles behind Washington, and ignored almost daily messages to hurry while he wrote correspondence to his own supporters, seeking to promote himself. It was a dangerous game, especially with the British pursuing them persistently, but he arrogantly believed he could repulse any attack.

* * *

While he finished constructing a lean-to shelter with pine boughs, Blair muttered under his breath, cursing the filthy weather. Sleeting rain had turned to fat flakes of snow that were falling heavily, creating a white curtain that muffled sound and quickly covered the ground and the trees. Though he'd chosen a site on the edge of the main encampment, he could no longer see the nearby canvas tents and could scarcely hear the voices of other soldiers - most of them stinking drunk as usual - who were grousing loudly about the freezing, miserable weather. At least now that they couldn't see him either, he didn't have to endure the disparaging 'medicine man' and 'Indian lover' insults by others who seemed to assume he bothered to build such a shelter simply for the fun of it. Other hunters in the army who lived their lives outdoors also built their own shelters rather than relying upon the questionable comfort of the small tents, also hunted to augment the thin rations of hardtack and jerky. Some of them even wore fringed leather, because such garments were sturdy, blended well with the terrain, and .... His thoughts stalled. The other hunters hadn't lived most of their lives with the Cherokee; weren't Jewish; weren't so foreign. Shaking his head, he sighed and returned his attention to his work.

He was tired, and his sense of humour was running thin. For months, he and Jim had scarcely stopped moving as they ranged ahead of Washington to scout and to carry the call for the New Jersey militia to rise and support the General. The cold was bitter and he couldn't stop shivering but he knew he was better off in his buckskin long-sleeved shirt and knee-length fur-lined vest, warm leggings and moccasins than were the others with their ragged clothing and poorly made boots that were rotting from being constantly wet. His lips thinned and twisted into a chagrined grimace when he recalled how he'd tried to encourage others to use the pelts of the animals they all hunted to augment the poor rations, and the skins of the cows and pigs and sheep they slaughtered when they could be had, into knee-high leather footgear and more resilient tunics and breeches. But ... he'd been jeered and mocked, and he'd given up making suggestions that weren't wanted. Determinedly, he pushed the unpleasant memories away. It was cold and he had no time to let his mind meander down useless trails.

His hands were chapped and had grown numb; he had to blow on his fingers to warm them, his breath billowing in a white cloud before the snow and light wind carried it away. Determined to find something positive in the situation, he told himself the falling snow would soon cover the shelter and help to insulate it so that, once inside, he and Jim had a half-decent chance of being warm and a good deal dryer than the others who thought their flimsy canvas tents were so much more superior. He'd built it larger than the two of them really needed, but he hoped that Simon and Joel might rejoin them, if only briefly, to brief the General on what they were hearing and seeing in New York; it had been a while since they'd reported and they were overdue. Though he didn't know either man well, they'd spent enough time together before the fall of Fort Lee to know that he liked them and respected them. And that he could learn a lot from them. If they did show up while they were camped there, then he wanted to be sure there was a place for them. He just really hoped nothing bad had happened to them.

Finished with the exterior construction, he crawled inside and cleared out the soaking wet leaves until he'd reached the relatively dry ground beneath. He built a small fire, knowing the smoke would find its way out through the meshed boughs above. They could use Jim's rapier to punch a small hole up through the snow on the 'roof' to ensure ventilation. Once the air around him began to warm, he unrolled their bearskin to cover as much of the ground as he could, to keep out its chill, and then opened their bedrolls to place their blankets near the fire to warm them. Taking a bucket with him, he left the shelter and trudged through the growing drifts to check the traplines he'd set earlier along the river, some distance away from the camp. Thirty minutes later, he was rewarded with three good-sized jack rabbits that hadn't yet lost their summer plumpness and, on the way back, he filled the bucket with fresh, icy cold water. With the root vegetables he'd scrounged the week before and still had squirreled away, he could make a passable stew. So far, they hadn't had to partake of the ghastly gruel that was all that was left of the food stocks that served the men; so long as he could hunt and scavenge, they never would.

By the time he heard the welcome sounds of Jim's voice and Simon's deep rumbling response, the stew was simmering over the fire and the shelter was both warm and scented with the rich aroma of dinner. He quickly shifted their gear into a corner, and was glad that he'd built the lean-to large enough to also accommodate their two friends - even happier to know they had arrived. He'd missed them. It would still be a tight fit for so many large men, but the added body heat would only make their little home away from home that much toastier.

After brushing the snow from their coats and stamping their boots outside, Jim led through the low opening into the shelter. With a grateful grin, he cheerfully told Blair, "Snow's so thick, I couldn't see a thing - but I could smell that stew from a mile away."

Chuckling, Sandburg greeted the other members of their team with sparkling eyes and an exuberant smile. "Hey, long time no see," he welcomed them, waving expansively to indicate they should make themselves at home. "Really, really glad you found us," he added warmly.

Holding their hands near the fire and rubbing them to restore circulation, Simon and Joel gave him wide smiles in return. "You know how to make a man welcome, I'll grant you that," Simon said. "This is a fine shelter."

"Sure better'n those pitiful tents the others are huddlin' in," Joel agreed heartily. Sniffing appreciatively, he went on, "And, so far's I could tell, not many of 'em are lookin' forward to such a bountiful meal."

"So, what's the news?" Blair asked, trying to sound eager and not anxious, though he doubted the news could be good, given the losses that summer and fall. Just the day before, two full brigades of the Flying Rangers - over two thousand men - had flatly refused to re-enlist when their hitch expired, and many more men, too many, were simply deserting in despair, giving up and going home. All told, Washington had less than three thousand men left, and not all of them were able-bodied, not by a long shot, what with the wounds many had suffered and the illness many more were succumbing to because of inadequate food, no rest and exposure to the increasingly rotten, bitter weather. They'd had little to celebrate at Thanksgiving the week before, beyond still being alive. Most days, Blair figured that was enough to be grateful for.

Snorting, Jim muttered bitterly, "The only good news is, Howe has to be getting close to ending the campaign for the year and pulling his men into winter quarters. Maybe soon, we can stop running for awhile."

"'Fraid there's not much else but bad news," Simon sighed, shaking his head. "You know better'n we do that with so many deserting, Washington scarcely has three thousand able-bodied men left to fight, an' most of them are with Lee. Word in New York is that support for the revolution has dwindled to just about nothing."

"Hasn't helped that there hasn't been a victory on our side for months, and the losses have been mounting up," Joel added glumly. "Most folks're a'feared of the British wrath an' are just keepin' their heads down."

Blair nodded. "We've heard that our paper money isn't being accepted for supplies and soldiers aren't even being given permission to sleep in barns anymore," he said bleakly. "And the New Jersey militia sure hasn't rushed to give any support."

"Most of 'em are staying home to ambush the British and Hessian patrols in retaliation for their raiding and plundering across the countryside during the last few weeks," Simon told him with a sigh. Shaking his head, he went on, "It's not looking good. Not good at all. Doesn't help that Lee is taking his own sweet time about bringing the main force to Washington."

Jim nodded in disgruntled agreement. "The man's a menace; too damned arrogant to follow orders and too stupid to make good decisions. I sometimes wonder if he's receiving word that the General has been getting dispatches that indicate there are plots afoot to have him removed from command, even to surrender, and he hopes to be the new Commander. God help us if he's ever the man in charge." Grimacing, Jim poked at the fire and muttered, "We need a victory and we need it bad."

Blair looked at each of them before his gaze dropped to the fire. A victory? In winter, when more than half the army had deserted or been captured, and the rest were scarcely clothed or shod? His lips thinned and he shook his head sorrowfully. Liberty was a fine dream, but it wouldn't be real unless something changed, and soon. A morose silence fell amongst them, but he shook himself and reached for his pack.

"I was hoping you guys would show up soon," he said, determinedly cheerful as he changed the subject and drew out several rolled leather objects. "Don't know if you'll want this stuff, but I made 'em for you to keep your heads and feet warm this winter. I hope they'll all fit." Sorting through the handmade leather goods, he handed around fur-lined moccasins that would lace almost to the knee and coon-skin caps. "The Indians say if you can keep your head and your feet warm and dry, well, then, the rest of you doesn't suffer the cold as badly," he explained diffidently. "They aren't fancy, no bead work or anything, but ...." Uncertain as to whether they'd welcome Indian-style gear, his voice died away.

Looking a lot like children who'd only expected a lump of coal in their Christmas stocking and had found their heart's desire instead, utterly speechless with surprise and wonder, Simon and Joel gaped at him and then at the warm boots and caps he'd made for them. And then they were hastily hauling off their old, battered, wet boots, and drawing on their new gifts, and then both pulled their new caps over their heads. Joel's eyes closed as he smiled blissfully and Simon looked as if he was having trouble finding words. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, his voice husky with emotion, "These are mighty fine, Blair, and we're sure enough grateful. Were envious, to tell you the truth, of Jim's fine boots and cap you'd already made for him. I swear, he's the only man in the camp, aside from yourself, who's got warm, dry feet."

"And now, we do, too," Joel chimed in with a contented sigh. "This is real good of you, Blair. Real thoughtful. Thank you."

Very pleased with their reaction, he grinned happily as Jim slapped him approvingly on the shoulder, and then he began serving up their dinner.

Later, their hunger well satisfied, warm for what felt like the first time in weeks, the four men snuggled into their blankets around the fire. Blair put a pot of water on the fire and dropped in a handful of dried leaves from his pack, and soon the clean scent of herbal tea swirled in the air. When he'd filled their cups, Simon looked at Joel and lifted a brow, and the older man nodded.

"Well, seems to me," Simon began, "we've got a long evening ahead of us and nowhere to go, so maybe it's time for a bit of storytelling."

Jim gave his friend a thoughtful look, but Blair lifted eyes bright with interest, and he grinned eagerly. "I love hearing stories," he encouraged.

Nodding, Simon watched him as he said, "Was a time you said to me that some stories are best left untold until a man was known and trusted." When Blair flushed and looked away, Simon went on, "Joel and I have decided you're a man to go the distance with. We decided we wanted to tell you our story, if you've a mind to hear it."

Knowing their trust was far from lightly given, Blair's throat thickened with sudden emotion. Pressing his lips together to gain control, swallowing hard, he nodded. Finally, he murmured hoarsely, "I'd like very much to hear it. Thank you."

"You fine with this, Jim?" Joel asked, sure of the answer but wanting it said. "It's partly your story, too."

"More than fine, Joel," he replied stoutly as he looped an affectionate arm around Blair's shoulders. "I trust Sandburg with my life."

"Yeah, we know," Simon allowed with a grin. "We've seen that he takes mighty fine care of you." They all chuckled at Blair's flush of embarrassment. After sipping at his tea, Simon continued, "Well, we need to go back a mite into the mists of time to get to the beginning. You know that the slaves taken in Africa were often kidnapped by rival tribes because they were a threat?" When Blair nodded solemnly, he went on, "My great-grandfather was destined to be the king in his land, only he wound up on a slave ship bound for Virginia. Joel's mother's uncle was also groomed for leadership in his tribe. They and the others who came with them held as fast as they could to who they'd been, to sustain their dignity and pride, and they passed down their stories about where they'd come from. About their beliefs and traditions. Secretly, you understand? The white massa never wanted to know 'bout no high falutin' slave yarns; probably wouldn't've believed any of it."

"So ... you were born ... you weren't born free?" Blair murmured, not surprised, as he looked from Simon to Joel and back again.

"No, son," Joel answered. "We were born slaves, and lived as slaves up until about twelve years ago."

Blair's gaze dropped away and he slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

For a brief span, none of them spoke, and then Simon sighed. "We was field slaves, the lowest of the low, little more than animals. In fact, the truth of it is that the animals was treated a sight better than we was. Oh, not every overseer was a sadist, but too many are. Anyways, the man who owned us decided he had a surplus one year, an' he sold off the women and chill'un. One night, Joel and me had families - the next day, they was torn away from us, loaded on wagons and ... and that's the last we ever saw of 'em."

His voice tightened with mingled fury and inconsolable sorrow, and he looked away. Joel reached out and patted his shoulder, and then took up their tale. "We went a little crazy. Well, a lot crazy. Maybe you understand that kind of anger? When you jus' don' care 'bout nothin' no more?"

Blair met his eyes, his own dark with the memories of his mother's murder, and he nodded. "Yeah," he allowed huskily. "Yeah, maybe I can, sort of." Jim's grip around his shoulders tightened.

"We was taken out one day to work on a road that had been bad rutted by the rain, to shovel dirt in the potholes so the Master's horse wouldn't break a leg and the Mistress' carriage ride would be smooth," Joel told him then, shaking his head at the memory of the day. "It was a hot day, the air so clammy it stuck to us, and there wasn't no water, no matter how long we worked in the sun. We ... Simon and I ... we just had enough, that's all. We jes' flat refused to shovel anymore o' their dirt for 'em. And the overseer, well, he wasn't impressed, an' he whipped us both somethin' fierce, right there on that road, for anyone passing by to see. A ... a shovel got swung hard an' that overseer just plum keeled over."

Blair looked from one to the other, but he didn't ask - wasn't sure he either needed to know or really cared about the brute that had fallen on that distant road.

But Simon told him, "We don't know if he was alive or dead. We just knew that if we stayed, we'd be dead before dawn. They can't afford to have slaves strike back, not like that. Could lead to an uprisin' on the plantation."

"So, we ran, as best we could with the chains around our ankles," Joel said flatly. "There wasn't no real hope of escape, but we couldn't jes' stand there like dumb animals waitin' to be slaughtered."

When silence again fell, the two older men looked at Jim, who was gazing into the flames. "I saw the whipping," he murmured, a frown between his brows. "They'd done no more than defend themselves."

"When Jim first rode up fast behind us, we thought we was dead for sure," Joel chuckled. "But he waved us into the bush, an' helped us to the river, where we could lose the scent, you know? For the dogs they'd use to track us? An' then he hid us in this big ole haystack. 'Stay there and stay quiet,' he ordered. 'I'll be back after dark'."

"An' he came back with a wagon full of boxes and crates that he tol' us he was sent to fetch and bring back north, special furniture his father had ordered from a craftsman in Richmond," Simon relayed, again taking up the story-telling. "And he brought medicine and bandages to clean our wounds and bind them. And food and water. An' he put us into one of the crates, an' loaded a bunch of others on top - an' he set off for the North."

"We heard 'im tellin' the search parties that no, he never saw two big crazy slave boys on the road; nope, he never did see nothin' at all, at all, an' with his fancy rich accent and his aristocratic manner, they never doubted him," Joel said fondly. "He brung us all the way home with 'im, an' he got us papers that said we was free. An' then he set us up with our fishin' boats and gear, an' he wished us luck."

"You know they'd hang him right alongside us, if'n anybody knew the truth," Simon said then solemnly.

"Yeah, I know," Blair replied soberly. "But sometimes what's right isn't what's legal."

Simon grimaced grimly. "And that's the God's own truth," he intoned. "An' there're half a million slaves in this new country who are wondering just what the inalienable right of liberty is gonna mean for them." Shaking his head, he sighed and shrugged. Someday that question was going to have to be answered, but he wondered if it would be in his lifetime. Letting his bitterness go, he turned to Blair and said, "So ... now you know our story."

"I ... I'm grateful for your trust," Blair said somberly, very moved by his clear understanding that they'd just voluntarily placed their lives in his hands. The other three men nodded and sipped at their cooling tea.

"We got another story for you," Joel said then, with a wink at Simon. "One the _both_ of you might find a tad interestin'."

"Really?" Blair asked, hoping it would be a happier one, and Jim looked at the two of them, wondering what they were up to now.

"Uh huh," Simon said as he scratched his cheek. "Like I said earlier, beliefs and traditions, old, old stories and legends have been passed down through the generations by those who came here first. We got a number of tales about the tribal guardians, the watchmen ... and about the men who stood with them, guarding them from danger."

Blair's eyes lit up and he breathed, "Really?" He glanced at Jim, who seemed bemused by the revelation, and then frowned as an old memory tugged at him. Ten years before, when he'd been Blair's age, they'd mentioned something about their legends, but he hadn't been listening. Turning back to the other men, Blair urged, "Go on, please." And Jim nodded soberly, more inclined to listen this time around.

For the next hour, while the snow continued to fall around their shelter, Simon and Joel shared a number of their myths with Jim and Blair. Some of the stories had them laughing, while others left them almost in awe of the parallels with Jim's experiences and senses, and the role Blair had come to play in his life.

"Our people believe that the partnership between these companions is sacred," Joel concluded solemnly, looking from one to the other. "Something rare and precious, to be treasured by the whole tribe. The two of you finding one another - that can't be no accident. You was meant to be together."

Thinking about his shaman's words, that one day the panther would find him, Blair gazed at him and then looked away. His throat tightened with the sure belief that Joel was right, that his meeting with Jim, their friendship, was somehow fated. But it wasn't for him to say, wasn't his place to impose himself on Jim's life beyond what they were, or to suggest that he hoped, if they both survived the war, that what they shared would go on.

Silence stretched and then Jim sighed. "I suspect you're right, Joel," he allowed. "I don't begin to understand it and don't really believe in all the mystical stuff ... but I suspect you're right. I only know that I'm lucky Blair found me and he's helped me more than I can ever say."

Blair smiled then, slowly, quietly, and he relaxed under the arm that held him close to Jim's side, held him where he belonged. However long it lasted, he was home.

* * *

Their respite was short-lived. On the first of December, the British were again on the move and crowding their tails, so Washington ordered his men to quickly break camp and move out. They had barely made it across the bridge outside New Brunswick when the redcoats poured into the town. Jim and Blair stayed with Washington at the rear of their retreating column, holding the bridge while the others made their escape, and then destroying it before the enemy could cross. For the rest of that day and the next, they cut down trees to block the road of their retreat and destroyed more bridges along the way - anything and everything they could do to slow Howe's forces, to buy their comrades more time to put some distance between the two armies. Survival was the order of the day. By the time they joined up again at Princeton, Washington had less than four hundred men with him. He again sent urgent dispatches to Lee to move the main force more quickly, and repeated his call to the New Jersey Militia to rally to him, but Lee seemed to have his own plans and didn't respond, and the New Jersey Militia continued to remain elusive.

During the next week, as they ranged back and forth across the river between Princeton and Trenton, Washington was gladdened by the unexpected arrival of two thousand militia from Pennsylvania. Shortly after, more of his men under the leadership of his most trusted general, Nathaneal Greene, were forced to retreat before the British until Greene reached Washington and the two groups joined, giving him a more formidable if increasingly pathetic army of ill-clothed, poorly nourished, usually drunk, largely unhealthy, vermin-infested men and their ragged camp followers. They couldn't keep running in their exhausted state, and the weather was growing colder; while the freezing temperatures made travel easier over hardened ground, rather than sloppy mud, the British could move faster as well. Washington sent out an order to pull all boats from the river, confiscating them if necessary, to land them on the Pennsylvania side where he'd set up their camp, to prevent the British from following further.

The General was feeling desperate, though he strove to hide his despair; if things continued as they'd been going for too long, there was no hope. He knew in his heart that the game was about up and he was on the verge of being forced into surrender. But, though there was little enough reason for optimism, he clung to his belief that their cause was just and, deep down, he remembered that providential fog that had shielded them during the Long Island evacuation. He was certain that, inevitably, they must win this war - and he felt an odd sense of invincibility.

If they could just hold on, surely, at some point, they must begin to prevail.

* * *

Washington's strategy to gain some relief from pursuit bore fruit when Howe's forces couldn't find any boats to take them across the river on the seventh and eighth of December. Standing on the bank and looking across to where Washington held the ground, the British General thoughtfully scratched his cheek as he considered the situation. Over the past weeks, he'd crossed New Jersey with virtually no opposition other than the occasional raids on his foraging parties. The militia there might as well be non-existent. Rhode Island had fallen when the British navy had sailed into Newport, and he held New York. Further north, the British forces had been triumphant until they'd retired to their winter quarters in Quebec. His spies, linking closely with the Loyalists, told him that only half the population had ever supported the rebellion and now, given the pathetic showing of the Continental Army, even that support had fallen dramatically. Washington was suffering from rampant desertion of his troops, not that Howe could blame the poor buggers for their cowardice. Better to quit and live than run and keep dying from the weather and hunger as much as from military engagements. Washington's paper money was being rejected everywhere as the trash it was, and no one wanted to be caught with it when the British swept through, lest they be hung as traitors. In less than a month, the vast majority of Washington's men would come to the end of their term of voluntary service, and Howe couldn't imagine that any of them would be so foolhardy or such imbeciles as to re-enlist in support of what was so obviously a hopeless cause. No, the men would walk away, and Washington would have no army left.

The wind was achingly cold off the water, the sky above muddy with low scudding clouds. Howe shivered and then turned away from the Delaware River and his stubborn foe. The time had come to rely on the weather to do the last of his work for him. Weary of the chase, he sent orders to deploy his regiments along the line of territory they held. Oh, he knew he was spreading his forces thinly, but that pathetic, ragtag band was no threat; never had been really. Though others urged him to continue the pursuit and 'foreclose the mortgage' by destroying the tattered remains of the Continental Army once and for all, he ignored them, preferring to continue his policy of avoiding total annihilation if he could. Instead, he retreated to winter quarters, certain the spring would bloom with an easy peace.

A week later, on December 16th, acting on the information of Loyalists in the area, British Dragoons captured Lee in a tavern in Basking Ridge. Though Lee's men, camped some distance away, again eluded capture, Howe remained convinced that Washington was no challenge. It was Lee, after all, who was the experienced warrior and the real military threat - and now those fangs had been pulled.

* * *

Washington felt Lee's capture as yet another blow, but it had the unexpected benefit that his main army, now under the leadership of General John Sullivan - his most experienced general after Lee - quickly made its way to join him. And, just as they arrived, another eight hundred men marching behind General Horatio Gates came to join him from Fort Ticonderoga, the massive British fortress that Benedict Arnold had captured the year before.

And suddenly, as swiftly as that, he had an army again, though only about forty-seven hundred were truly fit for duty. Still, that was enough and considerably more than he'd had for some time. Determined that the year could not end without a significant American victory to rally hope and support, on the twenty-second of December, he called in Colonel Glover and made his plan of attack for a battle he knew he must win or forfeit the war ... and all their dreams of liberty.

* * *

"Hell of a way to spend Christmas," Jim muttered as he hitched the bearskin more closely and tightly around their shoulders to cut the cruel wind. Looking up at the thickening clouds, he shook his head and blew on his hands to warm them. They were hunched together in a thicket at the edge of the forest on a low rise nearly a mile from Fort Trenton, keeping surveillance on the Hessians quartered there. Curious, he turned to his partner and asked, "You celebrate Christmas?"

With a small smile, Blair shook his head. "Wasn't a tradition amongst the Cherokee," he replied, "and, well, being both Jewish and poor, Ma and I treated it like any other day."

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Jim shrugged and looked away. But his hand went to the pouch on his belt, and fiddled around until his fingers gained entry past the drawstring. "Christmas was a big deal when I was growing up." Jutting his chin toward the fortified town's church where all the inhabitants were currently gathered, he said, "Like them, we went to church, sang Christmas carols, gave thanks for the birth of that baby in Bethlehem that came to bring peace to the world." His voice fell away and he snorted. "Peace," he echoed, shaking his head. "And those bastards praying down there are the most vicious, merciless ...." He shook his head, furious about all he'd heard and seen of how the Hessians had raped, tortured and murdered during their so-called 'provisioning' expeditions around the countryside. Grimly, he told himself that their depredations had gone a long way to making people think twice about remaining on the fence and not supporting Washington and the Continental Army.

Silence fell between them until he set his dark thoughts aside and began speaking again. "Anyway, we exchanged gifts, usually some new clothes or, especially when Steven and I were little, toys. Was nice," he remembered, a wistful note in his voice. "Before my mother left, it was nice."

When he again fell silent, Blair probed quietly, "And after she left?"

Rolling his shoulders, his expression distant, he replied, "My father tried, I guess. But ... it wasn't fun anymore. Felt like we were pretending to be happy, to have a good time, but ... it wasn't real."

Blair looked at him and patted his arm with wordless empathy, and then he rummaged in his pack. "I heard," he said, "that food is a big part of the tradition. Now, I can't conjure up a banquet, but I saved some of that pheasant we roasted yesterday, and brought some cold bannock. Not fancy, but it's filling."

Jim grinned and gratefully took the flat, fried Indian bread and rolled a slab of meat within it. He could smell the herbs Blair had used, and his mouth watered, remembering how good the bird had tasted the afternoon before.

"And," Blair continued, again rummaging, "when we stopped at that farm the other day, to get a report on the looting and burning the redcoats and the Hessians are doing all over the countryside, the kind lady pressed some of what they had left on me."

Amused, because all the farmer's wives they encountered seemed intent upon feeding his friend, Jim watched him dig out whatever it was this time. His grin widened in delight when Blair first pulled out a small jar of pickles, and then two apples ... and then he carefully unwrapped a small cloth packet of what Jim could already smell was rich shortbread biscuits. "Oh, and you said you couldn't conjure a banquet!" he exclaimed appreciatively as he opened the jar and inhaled the sharp, piquant scent.

Blair grinned and shrugged. "Well, scouting has its advantages. I know we eat better on a regular basis than they do in camp."

"Yeah, that's the truth," Jim agreed, taking a bite of his rolled pheasant and then crunching on a pickle. "An' I've got warm boots and a warm cap - most of 'em don't have more'n rags on their feet, and that's gotta be hell in this weather." Blair smiled widely, well pleased that Jim appreciated the boots and cap. Contently, they ate in silence while Jim kept watch on the Hessians but, when they were finished, once again, his hand drifted to his pouch. "Speaking of having warm feet and head," he went on, sounding almost diffident, "I've got a Christmas gift for you."

"You do? A gift? Really?" Blair exclaimed softly, his words forming puffs of cloud in the crisp morning air. He looked astonished and excited and ... very young.

"Really," Jim assured him with an indulgent grin as he drew forth a small linen bundle and placed it Blair's palm. "We been back and forth through these parts so often these past months," he explained, "I was able to get a silversmith to make this up for me."

"Silversmith?" Sandburg echoed in awe as he delicately unwrapped the linen. And then his lips parted in wordless wonder as he beheld the gift Jim had had made for him. The craftsman had fashioned a medallion of a panther on one side and a wolf on the other, so that they were positioned back to back within a circle of glimmering metal that hung on a sturdy silver chain. Speechless, Blair swallowed hard as he stared at it.

"When you told Simon your story," Jim said softly, "you said your shaman told you the wolf would guide you to the panther and ... and, well, uh, I guess I sort of think of the wolf as you and the panther as me. It's us, Chief," he rasped, unaccustomed to putting emotions into words. "Working together. Watching each other's back. "

Blair's fingers curled reverently around the medallion as, his head bowed, he nodded jerkily in agreement. "This is ..." he began, but his voice cracked and he had to swallow and clear his throat. He sniffed and took a breath. "Jim, I ... this is ... this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." When he looked up, Jim could see his lashes were wet, all sparkly in the light, and a single tear was freezing to his cheek. "Nobody has ever given me a gift before. And ... and this is the most perfect ...." Again his voice failed; he blinked and sniffed, flushing in embarrassment. "You don't know how much this means to me," he finally blurted. "Thank you."

Moved, Jim nodded mutely and gently covered Blair's hand and the gift it held with his own larger hand. "Go ahead. Put it on," he finally urged.

Blair pulled off his coonskin cap and looped the chain over his head, but still he held the medallion and gazed at it as if he couldn't quite believe it was real.

Jim looped an arm around his shoulders, and drew him close to his side. Looking away, he said quietly. "You said you're a wanderer, and your shaman said you'd wander until you found the panther and then you'd be home." His gaze scanning the frozen landscape around them, he went on, "Might not seem like it, the way we're always on the move. But ... but you've got a home with me, Blair. You don't have to wander anymore. You're ... you're not alone anymore."

Settling the medallion on his chest, Blair turned into his embrace and hugged him fiercely. "Neither are you, Jim," he whispered hoarsely. "Neither are you."

Jim fondly rubbed his back and then ruffled his hair. "Better put on your cap," he teased, "before your head freezes. Even that wild mop of hair isn't enough to keep you warm on a day like this." When Blair chuckled and pulled away to do as he was bid, Jim settled back and resumed his surveillance of the town below.

And he thought that maybe it wasn't such a bad Christmas after all.

As the hours wore on, knowing there'd be no sleep that night, they took turns dozing, curled tight under the shared bearskin. He'd slept first, unhesitatingly pillowing his head on Sandburg's leg, trusting the kid to stand watch. Now, while Blair slept, Jim lightly clasped his shoulder, to keep himself grounded when he stretched his vision and hearing to follow the activity in the Fort. But there was little to see beyond the regular patrols that strode out and back again. Apparently, the General had been wrong about the Hessians; they weren't carousers, didn't appear to drink much at all. So they'd not be hung over the next day. Jim shook his head. There was nothing he could do about that; it just meant the battle might be fiercer than the General had hoped. He was more concerned about the dampness in the air, and the lowering clouds, and the dropping temperature. He could smell a storm coming, and could only hope it would hold off at least until the next day. With little to focus on, he let his thoughts drift in the almost perfect silence of the forest around them.

Smiling softly at how the kid muttered even in his sleep, Jim thought about the difference Blair had made in his life - and not just with his senses. The competition his father had persistently generated between himself and Steven had kept him and his brother at odds too often to allow them to be completely comfortable with one another, even now, though at least they could be civil to one another. Somewhere during those childhood years, he'd lost the capacity to trust easily, though he wasn't sure if that was because of his mother's abandonment or the tension that seemed ever-present in the house and the feeling that he couldn't rely on either his father or his brother to be there for him if he needed them. His father would just tell him to toughen up, and he ignored the 'spells' and the problems Jim experienced with his perceptions of the world, as if they didn't exist or as if he thought Jim was just making them up. And Stevie? Well, whatever weakness Jim ever revealed, his brother exploited to win points with their father. Sighing, he shook his head. Stevie would be the first one to run to their father to shout out that Jim was having one of those spells - again. After a while, Jim had felt hunted in his own home, as if there was nowhere that was safe.

He'd left home as soon as his schooling was finished. The noise and stench of the city was like a physical burden, a boulder that pressed him into the ground, overwhelming him, exhausting him, and so he'd journeyed to the west and the wilderness of tree-carpeted hills and valleys. The peace, the clean fresh air, had restored him, though he knew he still had those damn spells, because sometimes he'd lose a whole day, coming to as the night was falling when the last he could remember was rising to meet the new day. The episodes scared him, and he knew he was courting disaster. He was helpless in those lost hours; an animal or the elements could kill him and he wouldn't even know he was in danger. Reluctantly, he'd returned home, but found the city as stifling as ever. Restless, he accepted his father's offer to be a wagoneer, traveling from place to place to buy and sell goods for his father's company.

And that's how he'd met Simon and Joel years a dozen years before. They were friends now, good friends, but that had taken time. They'd been embarrassingly grateful for so long and had a disturbing tendency to defer to him, even though he was just a kid and he didn't deserve such respect. The turning point had come when he'd invited them to go hunting with him. He just had to get out, get away, but didn't want to risk going back into the wilderness on his own. He'd been humiliated to know he couldn't trust himself, couldn't predict when the spells would come or how long they'd last, but he couldn't be such a fool as to pretend they weren't a danger. Awkwardly, he'd explained that he had 'episodes', and they shouldn't worry about it, because they didn't seem to hurt him but he needed someone with him, just to be sure he didn't get into trouble. They'd looked at him oddly, but agreed to set out with him. Strangely enough, the spells had been the key to changing how they all got along. Somehow, after the first time they'd seen him so vulnerable and had watched over him, there was a new equality between them all. He needed something they could give, could do for him, that he couldn't do for himself. The fact that he trusted them with his vulnerability conveyed his respect for them. And they'd grown very protective of him, firm friends from that time on.

Jim found himself remembering something Joel had said to him back on that first hunting trip. "The way you can see, hear, smell," the older man had mused, "I think you may be a watchman, but ... I don't know. I never heard of a watchman who had so much trouble."

Simon had muttered then, "Never heard of a watchman without a companion, neither."

Joel had looked at Simon and nodded thoughtfully, and then he'd said with solid confidence, "The companion'll show up one day, probably from out of the blue."

"Watchman? Companion?" Jim had challenged, not understanding what they were talking about.

"Has to do with our legends," Joel told him with a smile.

"Oh," he'd replied and let it go. He'd never given much credence to old wives' tales.

He'd forgotten all about it until Joel and Simon had told them those legends a few weeks ago, and then it all seemed to make sense to him, even though he still had trouble believing in anything he couldn't see, hear or touch. But he didn't know how else to explain Blair's miraculous presence in his life. Not only did the kid make sense of his senses - make them seem natural, even, not some curse - but, from the beginning, from those first moments on Long Island, he'd committed himself to supporting Jim and he'd never once wavered. Nor had he once asked for anything in return. His friendship was unconditional, or so it seemed. And that was something Jim had never experienced before. As Joel had said, Blair had indeed appeared from out of the blue, unlooked for and unexpected but, now, Jim couldn't imagine life without Blair at his side.

Oh, he'd known since he'd overheard Blair's recounting of his life that Sandburg somehow saw him as 'home', and hoped their affiliation would be more than simply a matter of convenience, borne of the war. But the kid had never, not once, hinted that he'd wanted anything longer term. If anything, he was the first one to reflect that they were at war and there were no guarantees of any kind about whether tomorrow would ever come, let alone some far distant, unimaginable future when the war was finally over. After a while, Jim had come to understand that Blair was using the war as an excuse for _him_ , to save _him_ from having to make a commitment of sorts to Blair, so _he_ wouldn't feel badly about not doing so. He'd figured that out when he'd realized one day that Blair didn't ask for anything, ever; that Blair must have learned a long time ago not to ask for help or support or understanding or friendship because it wouldn't be forthcoming. And yet Blair hadn't forgotten how to give. And he thought again of the orphaned child burying his murdered mother and then wandering until he dropped and believed he would die, and waking to find himself a slave in a foreign place where he didn't even know the language, let alone the customs. How hard, how unspeakably hard, had that been for that little kid? And yet, he'd not forgotten how to love, hadn't forgotten his commitment to his mother, had used his fine mind to learn more than most of the so-called philosophers of Jim's acquaintance. Blair had learned to expect nothing and be grateful for everything; he'd even learned how to let go of hatred.

Jim's grievances with his own life paled in comparison, and his anger over childhood hurts shamed him. He told himself that Blair was a survivor and that if anyone got through this war alive, it would be the kid. But he knew he was telling himself that because every time Blair suggested that there were no guarantees, his blood ran cold and tremors rippled along his spine. And, as the months had passed, and they'd fought battle after battle and faced one danger after another, Jim had felt a growing, even superstitious, need to somehow cement the partnership they'd formed, to convey that it wasn't just about the war or today, but was something that would last. Because the one thing he'd figured out that Blair hadn't learned was to believe that he'd ever really matter to anyone again, like he'd mattered to his mother, or to trust that life could hold anything that good for him. And yet ... and yet, he'd made his own commitment and had given his trust to Jim for however long Jim wanted it.

Jim had decided he wanted it - that trust and commitment - and he wanted Blair beside him, in his life, for the whole of his life. He'd never felt that before, not about anyone, at least not since he'd been a child. At first, it was borne of his need for Blair's help and confidence that his senses could be managed. But it had become more than that. Blair's presence had enriched his life, opened his eyes to see the world and his relationships differently, and just having the kid close made him feel good, settled somehow ... happy. As he lightly combed his fingers through the curls and listened to Blair's mutterings, he felt soothed, despite the cold and his knowledge of the battle to come.

When he'd arranged for the medallion to be made, he suspected that Blair would only think that he was trying to reassure the kid, to let him know he understood and accepted Blair's wish to belong. Looking down at the man dozing so peacefully, as if the kid knew he was perfectly safe with Jim watching over him, he remembered Blair's whispered but emphatic reassurance. He'd known in that moment that Blair had understood that the medallion meant so much more. Somehow, Blair knew that the panther had been looking for a home, too. A place of safety and acceptance. A place where he could rest. A place he could count on to always be there for him. And Blair had given that gift to Jim, as freely as he'd given everything else.

Joel and Simon had been right, both far back in the past and just a few weeks ago. The watchman needed a companion, and Jim knew now all that that meant. The companion was more than a friend, more than a brother. The companion was 'home'.

Glancing up at the sky, he felt his eyes burn with the surge of emotion that filled him. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, his heart full. The world around him might be at war but, in the midst of the chaos, he had found his peace was right there, lying next to him.

This guardian had found his companion, and he was immensely grateful.

* * *

The temperature continued to plummet and, by late afternoon, the cold was bitter; the strengthening damp wind cut to the bone. A few snowflakes drifted gently to the ground and Jim's eyes narrowed as he searched the sky.

"This isn't good," he stated flatly.

Following his gaze, Blair's eyes narrowed. "Storm's coming, isn't it?"

"Uh huh, too fast," Jim replied, coming stiffly to his feet and stamping them to get his blood going. He offered a hand to Blair and hoisted him up, and then they quickly rolled the bearskin and their blankets. Again looking at the sky, Jim said, "It's going to hit sometime tonight."

"You think the General will call off the attack?"

"No, he can't afford to - he needs this win," Jim muttered as they began the nearly ten-mile trek back toward the river, to be there when Washington landed. The darkness that night would be almost absolute and Jim would need to be at the head of the column to lead the men to Trenton. If it snowed, there wouldn't even be a road to follow along a good part of the stretch that ran between fields, just a blank white landscape; they could wander far off the mark.

Full dark had fallen before they reached the Delaware and Blair had hooked his hand into Jim's belt to follow closely after him and not stumble blindly along. The brisk walk warmed them but, if anything, it was even colder by the river. Chunks of ice were beginning to form on its already glazed surface, despite the wind kicking up the waves. Grimly, they thought about the men forming ranks on the opposite bank. Jim could see the dim shapes of boats and hear the restless mutter of men impatient to be standing around in the cold, as well as the creak of the cannon carts, and the low call of the Marblehead Mariners as they moved their craft into position. Blair couldn't see much of anything through the darkness, and he could only hear the rush of the worsening wind and the snap and crack of ice on the water.

Hastily, they built a small lean-to and got a fire going, hoping to create and hold enough warmth from the wind that their sweat wouldn't freeze on their skin and kill them with hypothermia. The tiny fire would also serve as the single beacon to lead in the boats as the night wore on. Once again, they huddled close under the blankets and the bearskin, and Blair broke out more rations - the last of the pheasant, bannock, pickles and biscuits.

"It's going to be the nightmare march from hell," Jim murmured starkly, "assuming they can even make it across."

Grimly, Blair nodded as Jim drew him closer for warmth. "The Nordic hell, Niflheim, a cold and dark place, ruled by the goddess, Hel," he muttered bleakly. "The original hell, not full of heat and fire, but icily dead, frozen, from which there was no escape." Shivering, he rambled on thoughtfully, "In Judaism, there is a more hopeful belief. Souls go to Gehenna or She'ol to be purified, and then they can enter Paradise or Heaven. Sometimes, though, souls return again and again, either to make up for past wrongs or because they are very good souls, who have much to teach and who wish to help, to make a difference to the living. I once overheard the General and Mr. Franklin talking about their beliefs - called themselves Deists. They think there is a Creator, even a personal God, but that miracles are a lot of nonsense. They think the way to understand the Creator is to understand nature, and the way to do that is through rational thought. And the Cherokee believe people and the animals go to the same darkening place in the west ... and with prayers, according to the deer, the spirit can return to live again. But people forgot to pray for the deer and so they were punished with rheumatism - and the plants, being kind, offered a cure, or at least a way to ease the aches and pains."

"According to the deer?" Jim echoed, shaking his head at the wild flights of fancy that people engaged in to explain the unknown and unknowable.

"Well, yeah," Blair replied with a small smile. "All living things have spirits and spirits can communicate one to another. Haven't you ever had a pet, and just known what that animal was trying to tell you?"

Despite his tendency toward disbelief, the example made sense and Jim, indeed, did remember that sense of communication with horses and dogs. But he wasn't so easily convinced. "Being able to communicate doesn't mean there is a spirit, Sandburg, just a brain."

"Well, you were raised Christian, right? So you were probably taught not to believe in reincarnation - your crowd only gives people one chance to get it right," Blair replied with amusement, though his words sounded like another one of his message stories. "Always thought your crowd was pretty unforgiving in that respect. You guys also think you own Heaven so you're the only ones who can get in, as if you can define or fully understand the Creator's mind or plans, or even hopes, for us and this world."

"You sound like you believe in a Creator who cares, Chief," Jim observed hollowly. "I'm not sure I do."

Laying a hand on his arm, his tone sober, no longer teasing, Blair said quietly, "There's something, Jim. Whether it's Divine Providence, the God of Abraham and Moses, the Father of Jesus, or the benevolent beings of the Upper World of the Cherokee, there's something. And ... and, well, just look at this incredible world we've been given to nurture and feed us, to ... to inspire our senses with its beauty. Of course the Creator cares for us, about us."

Shaking his head, Jim argued, "How can you be so sure? How can anyone know for sure?"

Sighing, Blair watched the flames. "I guess nobody can be sure, not the way you mean," he replied softly. "But ... but it's all so amazing, you know? Like ... like a wolf leading me to a panther," he went on, his fingers absently lifting to the medallion hidden by his clothing. "It can't all be accident or coincidence. At least, I don't think it can." He looked up at Jim, his gaze earnest and sure. "I believe we come back again and again, if we want to. I believe that ... that we were meant to find one another. That we have purposes to fulfill in this life. I don't believe that death is the end of it - might even be only the beginning."

"With the kind of life you've had, Blair, why would you even want to come back?" Jim asked softly. "All the hurt and pain, the suffering, the struggle ...."

"The wonder and magic, the beauty and hope," the kid replied, a smile ghosting over his lips. "And ... and, well," he went on very quietly, sounding almost embarrassed as his gaze dropped away to the fire, "I'd have to come back, wouldn't I - if my panther was here and needed me."

The soft words hit Jim like a cannonball, knocking the breath from his chest. "My God," he gasped, stunned by the magnitude of what the kid had just said, the kind of commitment his words implied. "You can't really believe that ... that you came back, that you were born because ... because ...."

"Because I needed to be here?" Blair asked, his voice barely a murmur. "You don't think I'd come back just because ... because _you_ needed me to be here?" When Jim didn't answer, couldn't find the words to answer, he leaned his head trustingly against Jim's shoulder. "If there is an eternity and paradise, however you define it or imagine it, it's infinite; there's no hurry to get there and no need to stay forever, because it's always there and we can always go back there. But ... but if your soul feels the call to be a watchman, a sentinel, to help and protect the vulnerable, then ... well, then my soul is going to want to come back, too." He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, as if drawing courage from the air to keep talking. "Jim, I know you probably think it's crazy, that everything I'm talking about is nuts but," he again lifted his eyes to study Jim's face in the fire's light, and the hope that Jim wouldn't laugh at him was nakedly vulnerable in his expression as he said soberly, "but I'd always find you, no matter what, no matter how long it took. I'd find you."

Jim ached to believe him, but couldn't form the words - and icy fingers were again skimming up and down his spine. Finally, tightening his embrace around Blair's shoulders, he rasped, "Yeah, well, we're here now and you found me. So maybe you're right. It's, uh, a nice belief, comforting. But ... but ...."

"But you don't really believe all this mystical shit," Blair supplied when his voice fell away. "That's okay. I'll believe for both of us, and you'll just have to trust me."

He smiled winningly, and Jim couldn't help but grin back as he nodded. "Trust you?" he echoed, chuckling. "Okay, okay, that I can do." Sniffing against the cold, he swiped his hand under his nose and then suggested, "You think we could talk about something more cheerful?"

"Oh, you mean talk about the filthy weather and the fact that we're likely to freeze to death before a Hessian can shoot us or turn a bayonet on us tomorrow morning?" Blair grumbled. "Jim, I gotta say that I think talking about eternal life and a never ending number of chances to get it right is a _lot_ more cheerful than that."

"Well, when you put it that way," Jim sighed. "I was thinking more about, oh, I don't know - maybe where we might go fishing next summer."

Blair laughed and punched him playfully. "Okay, okay. You're right. That'd be a lot more fun to think about." He put a few more sticks of wood on their small fire and they talked about where they'd fish the next summer, both of them fervently, if silently, hoping they'd both still be alive when summer came.

Not long after, Jim caught the sounds of the first boatloads plowing through the ice-strewn water, and they stood to help unload the artillery that Washington was bringing with him. But they were surprised that there were only eighteen cannon, and learned that more was being sent with another party, which was to land further along the river later that night. Jim glanced at the sky and was filled with foreboding, very worried that the weather was soon going to turn from bad to worse.

The temperature continued to drop, and the crossings slowed as the seaman battled the strengthening wind and the increasingly hazardous icy river. The boats were not large, and they had to ply back and forth countless times to ferry across the hundreds upon hundreds of men. As they disembarked, the sodden soldiers crouched in huddled circles, shivering miserably. Blair shook his head in pity as he eyed their inadequate wet and freezing clothing, some covering their nakedness only with their blankets, and too often bare feet were rapped only in rags, if that.

"They're going to freeze to death," he muttered anxiously to Jim.

"There's not much we can do for them," he replied tightly. "If more of 'em had paid attention when you tried to teach them how to make moccasins and leather garments out of the skins of the animals they hunted all along to augment the rations, they wouldn't be in such bad shape now."

Blair nodded bleakly as he turned away, and they set about swiftly cutting boughs to build at least modest windbreaks to protect the others from the worst of the gusting blasts of icy air. Some, seeing what they were doing, lent a hand, but most watched numbly, made wretchedly lethargic by the bitter cold. A few small fires were built to help them stay warm, but they couldn't risk many lest they attract attention.

But an hour before midnight, their worries about being seen by Hessian patrols or Loyalist spies gave way to the dangers of the weather. The storm that had been threatening all day broke with a fury of slashing, freezing rain that soon turned to driving snow so thick that drifts swiftly accumulated. More fires were quickly started as the heavy curtain of white would protect them from being seen from any distance, but the flames spluttered feebly and didn't survive the wind and snow.

The vicious weather wreaked further havoc with the crossings, already far slower than planned, and the agonizing, miserable transits grew slower still. Washington strode back and forth, fretting about the delays and glancing with evident compassion at his suffering men. Hour after hour passed and then, finally, around three in the morning, twenty-four hundred men, horses and cannon had crossed from Pennsylvania and they were able to form up, if raggedly, to slog the nine miles through the blinding blizzard to Trenton. Gazing down the river that he could barely see now for the thick, blowing snow, Washington wondered bleakly if his two other columns had made it safely across the Delaware.

As Jim had predicted, the narrow road to Trenton was completely obscured with drifting snow. All around them, fat, heavy flakes swirled making even his vision limited and blanketing the ground with a thick cover of white; the darkness was nearly absolute. He took point, Blair close beside him with one firm hand looped in his belt, and led off, breaking the path through snow up to his knees.

It was slow going, exhausting, to fight the cold and the drifts, slipping and sliding on the uneven ground under his boots and trying not to lose himself in the whirling curtain of swirling particles; difficult, too, to not go too fast, because the poor bastards behind him could barely shuffle along at a snail's pace. Casting a look back to stretch his sight differently and check the pace he'd set, he studied the men plodding behind him. The General was doing fine, looking as resolute as ever despite his advanced years. But the men behind him reminded him of sorely abused beasts suffering in despairing silence, moving forward by brute determination alone, pushing past any conceivable bounds of normal human energy or strength. All were blue with the cold, shivering violently, which used even more of their depleted energy at an alarming rate, energy which they couldn't spare. They all moved sluggishly, numb and stunned by the bitter cold, barely conscious, barely enduring the unendurable. Most of the poor wretches were wearing little more than torn rags, breeches with gaping holes, homespun shirts hanging open - the buttons long ago torn off and lost - and one or both sleeves missing. Many clutched blankets around their shoulders, but the wind whipped them up and around, so the thin cloth shields couldn't be providing much warmth to the poor beggars. And most had completely inadequate footwear, too many were shuffling and stumbling on bare feet that had to have lost all feeling hours before, and they'd be lucky not to suffer severe frostbite. Others had canvas wrappings around their feet, like awkward bandages, that were unraveling and could scarcely be doing any good. To him, they appeared like wraiths emerging eerily out of the blinding snow, not quite alive, not real; lost souls forever condemned to struggle miserably in abject despair through the cold and dark of an unforgiving hell.

He glanced down at Blair who was striding along gamely, lifting his feet high as the drifts were over his knees, having to take an extra step to match his longer stride. Grimacing regretfully, he shortened his stride to match his companion's. Blair's face was pinched and ruddy with cold, but too pale under the tan around his chapped lips and nose, but his breathing was still even, so he wasn't pushing the boundaries of his endurance. Despite his leather garments, he was shivering, too - poor kid hated the cold, having spent most of his life in more temperate climes. Jim looped an arm around his shoulders, wishing he could do more to ease the journey and convey warmth. But the only thing that was keeping any of them alive in the midst of the freezing blizzard was the warmth they generated as they walked onward, ever onward, to face a brutal enemy who gave no ground and didn't know the meaning of mercy or compassion on a battlefield. Shaking his head, he wondered how the hell anyone could expect the men behind him to be able to fight a flea, let alone armed and dangerous Hessian mercenaries who had spent the night warm in their beds.

The grueling, tortuous journey went on and on, yard after yard, mile after hideous mile. Washington muttered to himself that they'd never make the Fort by dawn, and Jim mutely nodded in agreement. The cold grew worse, the wind more biting, and the snow piled higher and deeper with every step. Watching the sky, or as much as he could see of it through the still falling snow, Jim realized that dawn couldn't be far off, that it must be close to seven in the morning. And they still had miles to go.

Washington called a brief halt at an open area where the flat ground provided no respite or break from the full force of the wind. "Is this the junction for Birmingham?" he called, pointing west.

"Yes, sir, it is," Jim confirmed.

The General scanned the area but there was no sign that any Hessian patrols had blundered so far from their refuge on such a rotten night. After a glance at his pocket watch, he waved his generals Greene and Sullivan forward and said, "Nathaneal, you and I will lead two thirds of the men along this road and come into Trenton from the north ... and, once we're there, you'll take half of our advance and swing around the Fort to hit from the east. John, you take the rest of the men straight on in, to hit them from the west."

"With respect, sir," John Sullivan observed pointedly, believing the whole adventure ill-conceived, "the muskets won't fire - it's too wet."

"Then use your bayonets," Washington replied with caustic deliberation. A steely look of determination on his face, he turned and gestured in the direction of the Fort. "I am resolved to take Trenton."

Sullivan nodded unhappily and dropped back, hoping he'd not be captured again, as he'd been on Long Island - or worse, wounded or killed in what was surely going to be a massacre of their pathetic excuse for an army.

"Captain Ellison, you stay with Sullivan," the General directed, and then lifted his arm to signal the men onward.

Ellison and Sandburg stepped to the side of the trampled path of snow and watched the long, straggling lines of men shuffle past, their heads down, shoulders slumped, moving sluggishly at best. Glad to be wearing the long, fur-lined sleeveless cloak Blair had made for him over the fall, even more grateful to have dry and relatively warm feet and head, he pitied those that resembled beggars far more than soldiers, none of them truly warriors. And those men had the harder, longer road for they'd have to travel nearly two miles further than Sullivan's group.

His grip around Blair's shoulders tightened. He understood the General was desperate and very much had to go forward with this battle, regardless of the hazards and hardship, but he was in no way convinced that they'd win. The Continental Army was in a do or die situation; if they won this battle, they might yet survive and triumph; if they lost, then it was all over and most, if not all of them, would be killed. Anxiously, he cocked his head, straining to hear past the wind, to overcome the muffling effect of the snow, to hear the Fort three miles away, with the hope of knowing if the Hessians were up and about, or hunkered down out of the inclement weather.

"Don't," Blair murmured, nudging him with an elbow. "We're not close enough yet. It's too far, too hard a reach."

Cocking a brow, Jim glanced at him, wondering how Sandburg had known what he was attempting.

"You tilt your head when you listen," Blair replied softly with a small smile. "And you scowl ferociously when you're trying really hard but not having any success."

"Uh huh," Jim grunted. Even after the months they'd spent together, he was still unnerved by how closely the kid observed him and how well Blair could read him. Sometimes, he had the uncomfortable feeling that Sandburg was reading his mind. Impatiently waiting for the last third of the column to appear out of the snow, stamping his feet to keep warm, he glanced at Sullivan and then quickly away, lest his opinion of the man be evident in his eyes. Like Lee, Sullivan held an undeservedly high opinion of himself and he expected to replace Washington if anything happened to the General. Which it well could, given that the man didn't spare himself and was most often to be found in the front ranks, sharing the dangers of his men. Sullivan knew enough about self-preservation to hang back - and, admittedly, he had suffered capture once and was lucky to have been returned in a prisoner exchange some weeks back. Shrugging, Jim figured they both counted on the code of honour on the field of battle that kept officers from being deliberately targeted. All part of the gentleman's game of war - they would send in the peasants to die but their precious hides were protected by tradition and ritual.

Finally, General Nathaneal Greene, a man only a few years older than Jim and the youngest general in the Continental Army, signaled that the rest of the men were to stay with Sullivan. He nodded genially at Jim and Blair, who saluted him formally as a measure of their honest respect for him, and then he turned to hasten forward, to rejoin Washington on the point.

"Lead on," Sullivan called to them, and they stepped back onto the snow-encrusted road at the head of the column, to continue breaking through the virgin drifts between them and the Fort, three miles away.

* * *

When Jim was finally able to glimpse the Fort ahead and the open land around Trenton, he sighed with deep relief. The snow on the ground was pristine, completely unbroken but for the shallow tracks of rabbits out foraging. In deference to the blizzard and, no doubt, their firm belief that there could be no threat on such a godforsaken Christmas night, the Hessians must have suspended their routine patrols. Extending his hearing, he smiled wolfishly at the cacophony of snores that rumbled throughout the fortified town - they were still abed! Though the storm had delayed them badly, and it must be past eight o'clock in the morning, they still had their element, their invaluable element, of surprise.

Turning his attention to the north, and then the east, he could hear that Washington and Greene still had some way to travel, and he waved his column to a stop where they were still obscured from the Fort by trees. He pointed out the unbroken snow to Sullivan, who called his aide forward with the intention of ordering the man to take word to Washington that they were in position.

"Sir," Jim intervened, conscious of the aide's evident exhaustion, "with respect, Sandburg and I know these woods and could make our way through them more easily to the General. We can take your message."

"Good enough," Sullivan nodded. "Off you go. Tell the General that I'll keep watch for his arrival and when we see him moving toward the Fort, we'll set out as well."

Jim sketched a vague salute and turned with Blair to lope off into the forest. The going was easier, for the thick canopy of trees had blocked much of the snow from the ground, so they didn't have to struggle through endless high drifts. And being able to move at a sharper pace warmed them further, loosening muscles that had stiffened with the cold. Since Jim could hear exactly where the General was, he angled their direction to take the shortest path. He only hoped that Sullivan would have the sense to keep his men moving in place, and not let them collapse in exhaustion to rest, for they'd quickly succumb to the cold and fall asleep, never to wake again.

In less than twenty minutes, they encountered Washington and Greene, and Jim hastily briefed them on the excellent news that the enemy was clearly very much unaware of their approach. Vastly heartened, the generals sent word down the column and the men perked up, grim smiles lighting their faces, giving them the appearance of hungry wolves. Trenton contained more than the despised enemy. There were supplies there. Warm, blue Hessian surcoats and sound, warm Hessian boots. Food. Lots of food. Eager now with the hope of victory and its spoils, the men rallied and their pace picked up as they hastened toward their target. The snow was finally tapering off and the wind dying, as if the weather had finally turned again to play on their side - in truth, superstitiously, many thought the storm, as horrible as it had been, was a gift of God to keep the Hessians ignorant of their coming. In another half hour, they were in position in the north, and Green broke off with his contingent to loop around to the east. Twenty minutes after that, when Jim nodded to Washington that Greene and his men were ready, the General gave the command to attack.

They made it all the way into the edge of town before a Hessian wandered outside for a piss and spotted them. He stood stunned for a frozen moment, then pulled up his rifle and shot ... but too late, for an American soldier had already taken a bead on him, and he was the first man to fall in the battle. The shots startled others awake, and they scrambled out of their beds and hastily pulled on boots and coats, grabbing their weapons as they streamed out of buildings all over town to find American soldiers swarming all over the place. Cannon began blasting the town, the thundering roar of artillery and the resounding blasts of explosions ripping through the morning quiet. Muddled by sleep, confused by the stark, shocking surprise of the attack, the Hessians were fatally unorganized. Their commander was the last to rise, so confusion reigned in their ranks. When Colonel Rahl finally did struggle out of his bed, sluggish after a night of revelry, he was almost immediately cut down by two shots, and he died not long after.

The Hessians fought desperately, but the Americans were all around them, coming from every direction, or so it seemed. And when their commander fell, panic took over and they ran ... or tried, only to be blocked in every direction but south by their enemy. The fighting was fierce, desperate, and often rifles or muskets failed on both sides, because the powder was wet from the still falling snow. Both sides resorted to bayonets, charging into close, bloody conflict. Jim turned at one point, after dispatching an enemy soldier, and saw another lunging toward Blair with his deadly bayonet. Too far away to help, with no time to reload, he watched with his heart in his mouth as Sandburg blocked the blow with his musket. But the man was big, heavy, determined to kill and kept coming at him. Seeming to give way, Blair feinted to the side and then, having looped his battle club around his wrist earlier because he hadn't trusted his musket in the damp weather, lashed out with it in hard back-handed blow, whirling to put all his weight behind it. He caught the enemy soldier on the side of the head with a resounding crack, and the man dropped in a heap at his feet. Blair lifted his gaze, anxiously checking to ensure Jim was still standing, and then he gave a quick smile as he loped closer - and then they both returned their full concentration to the fight.

The battle raged for an hour and a half, not long when most confrontations lasted for hours, and was decisive. Nearly nine hundred Hessians were captured and more than a hundred killed, though about six hundred managed to escape to the south because the other two contingents of the Continental Army had failed to get into position. The weather had prevented one group from crossing the Delaware at all, and the other was so delayed as to only arrive in time to help remove the prisoners and the thousand rifles, several cannon and ammunition and much needed stores that were confiscated. The Americans suffered less than half a dozen men wounded and the only men who died were the two or three that had dropped during the march, frozen to death by the blizzard.

By afternoon, the prisoners and the Continental Army, more warmly garbed and shod in good Hessian gear, were back in their camp on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware. They were beyond exhausted, but were also elated - they had just won their first pitched battle against the enemy's regular soldiers, and not just the redcoats but against Hessian mercenaries who were infamous for their skill and deadly, ruthless, almost savage competence.

But the battle had taken its toll. By the next dawn, more than one thousand troops had fallen ill. Anxious to know what the British were up to and how they were responding to the loss of Trenton, Washington sent Jim and Blair back across the river to keep watch and report back to him by the evening of the twenty-ninth. The General knew he had only days to consolidate the win, to get back to Trenton with his full Army and stake claim to the Fort. He certainly had no time to rejoice in his unequivocal triumph; he was too aware that the end of the year was coming fast and that the enlistment period of the vast majority of his troops expired with the advent of the New Year. The men were, as he knew only too well, exhausted, even if they were somewhat less demoralized than they'd been before their success at Trenton. They'd not been paid for months and were legitimately disgruntled by that fact, for they had families who suffered in their absence, many of them subsisting on the edge of starvation. But he _couldn't_ let them go. He needed them too desperately to consolidate the American position before winter put a stop to all action. The defeat of the Hessians at Trenton wasn't enough to assure other volunteers would rally to him - if these men left, went home, he would have no army, no means of continuing the fight for freedom.

Though he seemed typically calm and thoughtful when he ordered the men to muster on the twenty-ninth of December, he felt an urgent sense of desperation. Mounting his white charger, he rode out before them to ensure all the men could see and hear him clearly. Gazing out over the assembled ranks, his eyes filled with compassion and he felt both a tremendous sense of gratitude and profound humility that they had endured every hardship to stand with him so long, and to fight so bravely against impossible odds. With all his heart, he sorely wished he could wish them well and send them home to rest.

But he could not.

Finally, when full silence fell and they were all listening for his words, his voice ringing with sincere affection and regret, he called out, "My brave fellows, you have done all I asked you to do and more than could reasonably be expected." Pausing, he shook his head regretfully before continuing with compelling power, "But your _country_ is at stake, your wives, your houses, and _all_ that you hold dear. You have worn yourselves out with fatigues and hardships ... but we know not how to spare you. If you will consent to stay only _one_ month longer, you will render that service to the cause of liberty and to your country which you probably never can do under _any_ other circumstances. The present is _emphatically_ the crisis which is to decide our destiny."

He looked into their earnest faces, worn by deprivation and illness, held their eyes, and then asked those who would give just one more month to step forward. Immediately, the gazes that had held his own fell away as if ashamed and shoulders that had been proudly squared sagged as heads bowed or turned away from his searching eyes. He waited as they struggled with their own so understandable need to have an end to it. Some cast him furtive glances, and he was profoundly moved to see tears in their eyes before they again turned their faces away from him. Silence hung thick in the air, stretched until it became awkward and uncomfortable and not one man moved; but still he waited, respecting their need to wrestle with their own consciences. Finally, one man sighed and stepped forward, with a muttered, "Ah, well, t'is only another month." Others moved forward then, too, a goodly number, as if that one man's brave folly released the reins they'd held on their own courage ... but not enough men stepped forward. Not nearly enough to face the days ahead and the battles that must yet be fought.

But Washington couldn't find it in his heart to condemn those that stood firm, refusing to grant him more time and effort. Why should they step forward after all? They might have drunk excessively most nights to fuel their courage, but they'd stayed when so very many others had already deserted. They'd lived up to their word and served their time. They'd faced hideous hardship and privation, and had fought with resolute bravery against staggeringly overwhelming odds. And their families sorely needed them back home.

He bowed his head a moment in defeat, but he could not give up. Resolutely, he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. They _wanted_ to stay - he could _feel_ it, see it in their eyes, their postures, but they needed to be met halfway, needed to have their legitimate needs as free and responsible men acknowledged and respected. Trusting his instincts, he shouted into the tense silence, "I promise every single man who agrees to stay another six weeks a ten dollar bonus."

Heads jerked up toward him, and relief flooded their faces at the unexpected boon of nearly a year's pay that made staying for a wee bit longer more than reasonable and of real value to their families. The lips of many men trembled and tears of relief blurred their eyes for, in truth, Washington was right in his assessment of their motives - they were there in the first place because they believed passionately in the cause they were fighting for. They were loathe to abandon Washington and their fledgling nation of free men, most especially when they'd just proven so decisively that Americans were as good as any European soldiers.

Washington voice rang out again, his shouted words a rallying cry in the crisp morning air, "Who will stand with me for but six more weeks? To change the course of our future, our destiny! To win our freedom!"

In answer to his call, every last man there proudly and determinedly took that step forward, to stay and fight, to give him six more weeks that would decide the future of their world; for they all knew that if the army faltered now, the revolution was truly lost.

Washington's eyes burned and his throat thickened; he'd not dreamed he'd be able to hold them all and he was overwhelmed by their devotion and courageous commitment. Pressing his lips together to contain the emotion that surged in his breast, he nodded and lifted his hand to salute these brave and so noble men; men who quite evidently had only hesitated to face more peril out of concern for their families and who, in truth, needed so very little tangible encouragement to justify staying to follow him into further danger.

"Thank you," he called when he could trust his voice, releasing them from parade, and they cheered him enthusiastically as he rode off the field. Back in his quarters, he wrote a hasty note to the Continental Assembly, begging for the ten dollars he'd promised to each man ... and he resolved that, if he was refused, he'd pay the sum out of his own pocket, if need be, to keep his promise to reward their uncommon loyalty and courage.

* * *

Jim and Blair, weary to the bone, scruffy and unshaven, heard about the extraordinary events of the day when they returned to the camp at dusk. Going immediately to the General, they regretfully told him that Cornwallis - alerted to the defeat by the retreating Hessians - was preparing to march on Trenton, to retake the Fort for the British; what had been won could very shortly again be lost. Looking away, his expression thoughtful, Washington listened intently as they also recounted the more hopeful news that they'd seen the local inhabitants tearing down the red flags that signaled support for the royals - word of their triumph on the twenty-sixth was apparently spreading like wildfire all across the New Jersey colony, and confidence in the Continental Army was growing again. The General sincerely thanked them for the intelligence they'd garnered, and sent them to get some food and much needed rest.

The next day, the General resolutely led his army of five thousand men, made up of sixteen hundred regular army and the rest militia, back across the river and into Trenton to make the point that the British no longer controlled the whole of New Jersey. Nor was Washington prepared to stop there; he knew full well the British would allow them no respite. He only had weeks - really, only a matter of days - to not only hold the line, but turn the tide. He had to prove that Trenton wasn't a fluke occasioned by the accident of weather, but that the Americans were worthy adversaries; only days to rally the support he needed amongst his countrymen to keep the dream of freedom alive. Jim and Blair he tasked to continue ahead, to Princeton, to keep watch on Cornwallis and alert him as soon as the British were on the move.

* * *

The very next day, late on the afternoon of the last day of 1776, Jim and Blair hared back to Washington to tell him Cornwallis and six thousand troops were on the march to Trenton and that more than a thousand had been left behind to hold Princeton.

Washington immediately increased the building of fortifications and pickets on the south side of Assumpink Creek, just north of town and, the next morning, he sent twelve hundred of his men out to loop around toward Princeton, to hold the reserve British force left there. Cornwallis already out-numbered him and he didn't need even more British redcoats to come marching down the road. Tensions built as the slow but steady progress of the British army's movements was reported. Washington and his generals moved amongst the men, encouraging them, being visible, letting them know that he'd not have them face an enemy he wouldn't face himself.

Late on the afternoon of the second of January, Cornwallis finally arrived. The British made a number of charges upon the bridge across the creek, but the Americans repelled them from their strong, consolidated position on the south side. Finally, as it grew dark, believing Washington was trapped between him and the Delaware River, Cornwallis called a halt to allow his men, tired from the march, to rest. There'd be time enough on the morrow to root out the stubborn Americans.

Washington gravely considered his position. True, they'd held off the immediate attacks, but he knew he didn't have the resources to withstand a strong, prolonged assault by a superior force. Once again, as he'd been in August, he was trapped with his back against a river. This time, however, he was determined not to retreat to the safety of the far shore. But ... his thoughts on the similarities with the situation on Long Island months before, he paused in his quest for options and then smiled wolfishly. Holding a leash on his excitement, he called in his subordinate generals and his scouts.

"We're moving out," he told them briskly, "under the cover of darkness. If we do this right, Cornwallis will be none the wiser and we'll steal a march on him to Princeton."

The others first gaped at him and then chuckled, encouraged by his audacity. Swiftly, they made their plans and then set about executing them. Four hundred men were ordered to remain behind to keep all the campfires burning and to make the sounds the British would associate with an army encampment. Just before dawn, they were to slip away and rejoin the Army. The wheels of the cannon carts were wound with rags and greased to muffle any sound of movement. At one in the morning on January 3, 1777, Washington again entrusted the leadership of his column to Captain Ellison's extraordinary sight and hearing, as well as his intimate knowledge of the area, fully confident that Jim could lead them through the darkness and choose a path that would easily keep them well distant from the British lines as they skirted around to the north.

Jim and Blair led the army along old, ill-used pathways, little more than ancient rutted, muddy tracks. But the ground was frozen hard, and the men and cannon traveled easily and swiftly. As the fog-shrouded dawn broke, they were close upon the heels of the force Washington had sent out days before, to hold the line if the remainder of the British troops marched out of Princeton.

Just ahead of them, they heard musket fire break out, and they stepped up their pace. Before long, they encountered militia men running in panic toward them and, grabbing hold of one, Washington listened as the man gabbled that the British were coming. In the fog, the British apparently had not realized until the two armies were nearly upon one another that the blue-coated Americans weren't actually Hessian troops. The American leader, Mercer, had bravely led his men forward and formed a line - but, when he'd been killed, his ill-trained militia had broken.

Cursing, Washington raised his voice and his sword, shouting for order, and the fleeing men who had slowed upon encountering the main force of their army milled around uncertainly. He, Greene and Sullivan moved amongst the panicked men, calming them, and then Washington led off, telling his generals to follow with their regiments at their best pace. In minutes, they'd encountered the British and began firing, slowing their advance. Washington ordered his army into battle lines less than thirty yards in front of the British force. On his order, they fired, advanced and fired, again and again.

Out-manned, the British soon turned and ran back to the safety of Princeton, the Americans howling after them, hot on their heels, driving them through the town and out the other side. Washington was loathe to let them go, but his men had barely recovered from the attack on Trenton days before, and had marched all night. He called them back to regroup. When the losses and gains were swiftly tallied, he learned that there were sixty British and thirty American dead and he had well over two hundred more prisoners.

And, behind him, there were six thousand British troops that had to have heard the artillery fire; had to know by now that the Americans had slipped away from under their noses to attack Princeton.

Once again, he had no choice but to abandon a fort he'd won in battle, for he hadn't the manpower to hold it. The Americans swiftly scavenged what they could of food, armament and supplies. As soon as the four hundred stout men who'd held the line at Trenton throughout the night arrived, grinning gleefully to walk so boldly into a key fortified town that had so recently been held by the enemy, he ordered his army to form up and march out, heading to Morristown. His men were worn to the bone and could fight no more, and the weather was again turning bitterly cold. It was time to go into winter quarters.

He could only hope they'd achieved enough, that the battles for Trenton and Princeton would show that the Continental Army was a force to reckon with.

* * *

Cornwallis cursed when he learned that the Americans had virtually escaped out one end of the Fort at Princeton as his force was entering the other. Once again, that elusive fox, Washington, had vanished with his army into the countryside. There was no telling which direction he'd headed in, for the ground was frozen solid and left no tracks. But he couldn't have gone far. After the shocking loss of Trenton and the stunning surprise attack on Princeton, the thought of Washington and his surprisingly resilient army being nearby and perhaps planning yet another unpleasant surprise, was not in the least comforting. They were supposed to be in winter quarters, not chasing all over the wilds of New Jersey after an army that was proving as elusive as a will o' the wisp, and as deadly as a serpent. And Washington wasn't the only leader who realized the tide of public opinion was swiftly turning against the British, for even the Loyalists had been shaken by the brutal Hessian raids. In Cornwallis' view, their forces were spread too thinly, at too much risk in the New Jersey colony and the last ten days had proven that very clearly. Disgusted by the dramatic turn of events against them, Cornwallis sent a messenger galloping to New York to report the disturbing news to Howe and to ask for direction.

When Howe received the dispatch, he scowled as he read and then angrily crumpled the paper and slammed his fist on his desk. He'd counted on the weather to crush Washington and, instead, the man had marched all night through a blizzard and beaten the most experienced and ruthless warriors under his command. He'd relied upon the overwhelming presence of British redcoats to cow the populace and assure their lack of support for the rebels - but the attitudes had shifted and hardened against the royals, and now were swinging back to align with the revolutionaries. The simplest foraging exercise there was now fraught with the danger of ambush.

Breathing deeply to contain and control his anger, Howe shook his head. The war wouldn't fizzle out, as he'd hoped, but would carry on. Though Washington hadn't the resources to confront the might of the British head-on, he'd shown surprising initiative and inventiveness in proving through surprise attacks that the hinterland was no safe place for the royals. And the blasted man seemed to have second sight, knowing exactly where and when the British line was weakest ... his army then moving with nearly supernatural stealth to attack before again disappearing like wraiths. Washington wasn't going to give up and his army apparently wasn't going to abandon him. How did one fight an enemy like that? On that enemy's home ground?

Resigned that he couldn't hold New Jersey without significant risk of loss of life, and committed to safeguarding the lives of his troops as his first, most compelling responsibility, Howe sent the messenger back with orders for Cornwallis to abandon the colony and return to New York.

* * *

As he settled into winter quarters in Morristown, Washington was gratified to hear he was being heralded as the hero of the day, a miracle worker of sorts who had wrested victory from the very maw of defeat. The citizenry of New Jersey cheered him and once again accepted the Continental paper money for much needed supplies. Men flocked to join his army, replenishing the ranks and, before long, he once again had ten thousand men to feed and quarter. Congress stopped muttering about his ability to lead and sent fulsome congratulations.

The war was far from over, and the General knew full well that he was hardly in any position to effectively fight the British. His men were still largely untrained and ill-equipped. But he'd learned much in the past brutal year. He'd learned how to hit and run, and he'd harried the British Lion out of New Jersey and back into the fortress of New York.

Against all the odds, the hope of liberty still burned bright.

* * *

The short days of winter passed quietly, aside from a few skirmishes in which the emboldened militia, having come to the realization that the enemy could be beaten, drove off marauding parties of redcoats scavenging the countryside for supplies, and a night of boldness when some boatmen burned a dozen British ships in the harbour. During the lull in hostilities, Jim and Blair first caught up on their sleep, hardly moving from the shelter they'd build on the edge of the camp for twenty-four hours. After that, they kept watch on the remaining British, helped drive off redcoated foragers, and contributed significantly to the foraging for their own army. Blair proved adept and useful in rooting out foodstuffs he'd learned about with the Indians, as well as an efficient hunter. But the way he developed an easy rapport with farmers and village people was what struck Jim the most. Typically, the kid let Jim take the lead in initiating conversation with a farmer when they hoped to have cattle or a pig or sheep donated to the cause. Ellison would engage in solemn conversation about the need to support the Army, and how badly they needed food, and try to cajole whoever it was to make a donation of something on four legs, or maybe a barrel of flour. And he'd also try to ferret out information about gossip, enemy troop movements and the mood of the folks in the countryside.

He usually didn't get very far. Times were hard and the British and Hessians had already covered a lot of the same ground, needing to feed an even larger force before Howe had pulled so many back to New York. Meanwhile, Blair would be fooling around with the kids of the family, showing them his war club or helping them make toy bows and arrows, letting them stalk him around the barn. At first, Jim found his antics vaguely annoying, and then he thought that maybe the kid was just getting a chance to play and, God knew, he'd not had much chance for that in his life. He'd turned away indulgently then, that first time, and even the second, going back to his haggling with the farmer. But, inevitably, the woman of the house would come out and watch, to make sure the kids were safe with him, and then start to smile and, as if he had a sixth sense, Blair would always, in that moment, look up and get this sheepish look and shrug, before letting the children 'ambush' him and tackle him to the ground. Laughing, he'd pick the smallest one up and stroll over to the mother, to introduce himself and explain why they were there. The woman would take the child from him and together they'd walk over to Jim and the farmer. And she'd say, "Amos, these brave men need our help to keep them brutal Germans and the heartless British away. They got to be fed to stay strong."

And before Jim knew it, they'd be driving a cow or a hog back toward camp, and Blair would be filling him in on everything the children and the woman had told him about what was going on around them, what they'd heard from neighbours or seen themselves. The third time the same darned thing happened, Jim realized it was no accident, nor fortuitous fate; Sandburg was working the children and the wives. Oh, he had fun doing it, but his actions had been entirely deliberate.

"You sneak," Jim called him on it one day, when Blair started laughing about how lucky Jim thought he was that the folks appreciated the time he took with their kids, and that the kids were so talkative. "You're deliberately suborning the children and the women!"

"Well, you've been giving me a real good cover, Jim," Blair teased him, his eyes sparkling. "The serious senior officer being all sober with the man of the house an' all. Makes me look harmless."

When Jim huffed and rolled his eyes and then, feeling as if Blair had been playing him as much as the locals, angrily cursed one of the hogs that had started rooting along the side the road, Blair laughed again. "Ah, come on," he cajoled with those big puppy dog eyes. "You can see for miles and hear even farther - I gotta contribute _something_ to this partnership."

Mollified, Jim ruffled his hair and looped an arm around his shoulder. "You contribute plenty, kid," he said with a smile. "Plenty."

Once, they came upon a house in the middle of nowhere, where one of the children was fevered and they could see the parents were worried sick. Blair quietly asked permission to see the child, and he felt around the little boy's throat and looked inside his mouth, put an ear to his chest to listen to the rasping breathing and the kid's heart. Frowning with concern, he looked up at the rough farmer and his thin, overworked wife and said, "I think I can help, if you'll let me."

"You got training in healin'?" the farmer asked harshly, eyeing him skeptically.

"Some," Blair replied, not telling them he'd learned from a shaman.

"Please, John, if he can help," the woman pleaded.

When he got a surly, uncertain nod, Blair rifled in his pack and pulled out some of his little leather bundles. "Could I have a bucket of cool water and some rags, and a bowl of steaming water? With a cup?" The farmer sent his oldest boy running to the well, and the woman and her daughter got busy over the wood stove. They spent hours there, while Blair cooled the child's skin with the soaked rags, and then had him inhale steam from the hot water he'd seeded with pungent herbs. And he made a tea with ground willowbark and honey that he fed to the lad, sip by sip. Throughout his ministrations, his touch was gentle and he kept up a low, reassuring murmur to the boy, sometimes even getting the miserably ill child to smile wanly.

When the fever broke, the mother wept with relief and the father looked like he might, too. Blair told them it was a lung infection and they needed to help the child get his lungs clear. He showed them how to cup their hands to gently pound the child's back at least four times every day, and he left them some of the willowbark, and some of the herbs to put into hot water when the congestion again got bad.

That time, they headed back to the encampment with two dairy cows and three hogs that were hell to keep moving in a straight line.

"You did good back there, Chief," Jim observed soberly. "Fever that high? That kid could'a died."

Blair dipped his head and shrugged with self-deprecation. "Wasn't a really serious illness, like cholera or diphtheria or smallpox," he replied. "Fevers ... fever can be good things - show that the body is still strong and fighting off the infection, whatever it is. But that kid was tired and needed a bit of relief. He looked generally healthy - gets enough to eat. He'll be okay."

"You're good with kids," he said then. "You'd make a good father."

And that elicited a wide smile. "You think so?" Blair replied, evidently well pleased with the assessment. "Always thought I'd like to have kids of my own," he added distantly. "Maybe. Someday."

But he hadn't sounded like he thought that 'someday' would ever come. Knowing his friend was again thinking about the war, about how there could be no guarantees, Jim's jaw tightened and he looked away. He didn't want to think about any of that. Didn't want to think that ... that Blair was right. There were no guarantees.

When they weren't out foraging or hunting or watching the enemy, they were in camp. And in camp, once again, Blair wasted nothing, smoking, tanning and curing the skins of cattle and sheep as he'd worked the hides of wild animals the fall before, and then shaping them into moccasins or garments. But, unlike the months past, this time, after the brutal, unforgettable march to Trenton, more of the others in camp were interested in learning from him. Many of the camp-followers also approached him to be taught the skills, and to learn about the use and preparations of herbs and greens and roots he introduced to their diets. Many of the soldiers still called him 'Medicine Man', but there was less sarcasm and more affection in their tones.

Jim got a kick out of seeing Blair relax more amongst the others, his wide grin, sparkling eyes and bright laughter far less rare. And he shook his head as he watched his partner charm the women who followed the army, getting them to teach him their arcane arts of seasoning, or making bread. One day, he was cleaning their rifles a short distance away from where Blair had his hands up to his elbows in a basin of dough, assiduously kneading it and joking with the women who were warning him not to overwork it. Sandburg had flour on his nose and cheek, and was snickering like a little kid when a regular soldier with long greasy hair, stubbled beard, and a superior sneer on his face ambled over to watch him.

"Boy, you one o' them 'Two Spirit' Injuns we hear tell about?" he demanded sarcastically. "Half man, half woman, and not so good at being either one?"

Jim stiffened and the women's easiness grew wary; those who understood the reference to a man who loved other men blushed in embarrassment. Blair glanced up at the man, and quirked his brow, a half smile playing on his lips. "No, Quinn," he replied evenly. "I'm not. Why? You lookin' for some company later?"

The surly soldier flushed at the mildly spoken question. "Why you little ...." And he charged at Sandburg, his fist lifted for a blow.

Jim stood but, before he could intervene, Blair shifted up and to the side and, with his floured hands held in the air in front of his chest to keep them clean, he hooked a foot behind Quinn's leg. Quinn found himself flat on his ass before he quite knew what happened. When he growled and surged forward again, Blair once more shifted his balance and then kicked out, catching Quinn just over the knee - hard enough to disable, but not to break the bone. Howling in pain, Quinn dropped again.

"Gosh, Quinn, you got a balance problem?" Blair asked innocently. "This falling down thing could be something serious. Maybe you should have it checked out."

The women started to twitter in amusement, which only infuriated Quinn more. But Jim appeared behind Blair's shoulder, which gave the man pause. Grumbling that 'goddamned Injun lover would get his', the obnoxious man stumbled away.

"Whatcha doing, Chief?" Jim asked mildly.

"Making bread, Jim," Blair replied with a grin as he again sank down on his knees beside the basin. "We're gonna have fresh rolls for dinner!"

"Sounds good, Sandburg," Jim smiled and nodded at the women. "Thank you, ladies. Appreciate you taking the time to show my friend how to cook something decent for a change."

"You wound me, man," Blair whined, but his eyes sparkled. "Least I cook. If we relied on you when we're on the trail, we'd starve."

Laughing, Jim went back to cleaning their weapons.

Every day but the Sabbath, the Army engaged in drills and exercises to improve their skills, but there wasn't ammunition to waste on target practice, other than targeting a deer or bear for the cookpot. The Americans felt a deep-seated aversion for the bayonet, considering it barbaric, but the officers insisted they work with straw-filled dummies to learn how to lunge and stab with some skill. But the training was haphazard and there was a general lack of discipline. The democratic ideal permeated the Army and the men, volunteers all, paid attention when they felt like it, or drank and played cards to fend off boredom when they didn't.

Washington fretted over supplies and money, writing Congress constantly to complain about lack of support and delays in paying the wages of the troops. He also paced endlessly while he thought about his strategy for the next year's campaign. The Continental Army could not engage in head-on, all-out warfare against a stronger, better trained, better equipped and more numerous enemy. He could keep the war going by defensively striking out and harassing the British, but he could not win the war by those tactics, unless the British just got sick of the aggravation and costs, threw up their hands and went away. Given England's reliance upon her worldwide colonies for wealth and trade, that wasn't likely to happen. He needed allies, strong allies that could help defeat the enemy. Often, he thought about Benjamin Franklin, who had arrived in France around Christmas, to negotiate a treaty with the King of France. Shaking his head and rubbing his mouth, Washington didn't hold out a lot of hope that a King would side with rebels against another Crown. However, the antipathy between the English and the French ran deep ... so there was some, if only limited, cause to retain hope of relief from that quarter.

During the day, hiding his misgivings behind an expression of calm confidence, he was always out amongst the men, encouraging them even as he was assessing and taking stock of how under-matched they were against the Empire's military might. England had sent over two hundred ships, gunboats and the beautiful, deadly man o' war vessels that could sail anywhere and conquer the world; his navy was a sad, small collection of ill-matched, old vessels. He had men of heart and courage, who stood and fought with the passion of their convictions, who had given their sweat to building what they had in the colonies - but who weren't soldiers, weren't warriors by trade. And even if they were, even if they had the most modern weapons and a bottomless pit of supplies, the British outnumbered them by more than two to one. At night, he wrestled with the demons of fear and hopelessness. Their cause was just. They had to try, had to give all they were, all they had. But sometimes ... sometimes he despaired that all they were and had would not be enough.

* * *

Howe smiled grimly as he listened to the latest intelligence report on the movement of his foe and gazed at the map of New Jersey spread out on his massive desk. Idly, his finger traced the forts and towns that Washington had moved men in to hold as the British had moved out. Over the past weeks, Washington had made the same mistake he had - had spread his forces too thinly over too vast an area.

Looking up at his men, Howe nodded with grim, even ironic, satisfaction. He'd see how the American fox enjoyed getting a taste of his own medicine.

* * *

On April 13, 1777, four thousand British and Hessian troops moved in a four-pronged attack against the five hundred Americans holding the Bound Brook garrison, taking them by complete surprise. Nearly a quarter of the Americans were killed or wounded against one British casualty. But, content to have made his point that resistance was futile, Howe didn't pursue the rest who ran for their lives. He took his forces back to New Brunswick, reestablishing his presence in New Jersey.

Furious at the militia for failing in their duty of watching the border, disgusted at the rumours that a Loyalist had betrayed his men, giving out the password that had allowed enemy troops to close in, and shaken by the almost casual display of staggeringly superior numbers, Washington quickly pulled his men back from the perimeters to consolidate his army. Frustrated to once more have to give ground, he moved them back into the hills, which gave him a vantage point from which to watch British movements, and he ordered General Gates and his men back north, to Fort Tyconderoga.

The winter hiatus was over.

The spring campaign of 1777 had begun sooner than expected ... and the Continental Army was already again on the run.


	2. Chapter 2

Just over a week later, ranging farther afield than usual to inform the supply bases about the army's move out of winter quarters and their new location, Jim and Blair were in Connecticut and making their way from one depot near the coast to another. Their path along the high ground took them along the coastline and Blair stopped at one point to look out across the sea. The wind was fresh off the water, the day warm with the promise of spring and the coming summer. He brushed hair out of his eyes and smiled to himself. Standing beside him, Jim asked, "Whatcha thinking, Chief?"

Blair's eyes were bright and his smile wide as he looked up at his friend. "Oh, just that someday, I hope I'll be able to cross that water and see more of the world. There's so much out there, Jim. So, so much to see."

Chuckling, Jim looped an arm around his shoulders and turned him back to the path. "Tell you what, Sandburg, when this war is over, you and me, we'll go check out the world. See the places you've been telling me about, like Greece and Jerusalem."

"You mean it?" Blair exclaimed, excited by the idea. "Man, that would be so great."

"I mean it," Jim laughed. "But first we've got a war to win."

Later that morning, they were jogging across a farm, when Jim stopped in mid-stride and half-turned toward the south, his head cocked.

"What is it?" Blair asked, his gaze searching the horizon and the forest nearby, but unable to discern anything wrong.

"Gunfire, and lots of it," Jim told him as he fully turned to squint in the direction of the fighting. "But it's too far away. I can't see ...."

"S'okay," Blair assured him. "You want to check it out?"

Nodding, Jim led off in the new direction and, a good hour later, they encountered panicked militia men who were running flat out as if the Devil himself was on their tail. The British had struck again, this time in Danbury. According to the barely coherent militiaman, a frightened kid who looked no more than fifteen years old, two thousand redcoats had sailed from Long Island and then marched inland to destroy the stores in Danbury: 4,000 to 5,000 barrels of preserved and pickled meat and flour, 5,000 pairs of shoes, 2,000 bushels of grain, and 1,600 virtually irreplaceable tents among other supplies were lost. As a further punitive gesture, the British burned nineteen homes in the area before marching westward, intent upon raiding more of the American logistics bases. The Americans in the depot had barely escaped with their lives ... or at least, some had escaped. All the kid knew was that quite a few had been killed.

"Two thousand," Blair echoed, swallowing hard. There weren't two thousand Continental Army soldiers in the whole of Connecticut. Hell, there weren't that many militiamen.

Jim licked his lips as he frowned and thought about what they could do. "General Arnold is probably the closest," he finally decided, and they set off to brief him. Brigadier General Benedict Arnold had been in the northern reaches for two years, but had last fall gone south to aid the efforts there; he had recently come north from the Carolinas with a regiment, and wasted no time upon hearing the report. Quickly mustering his men, they set off in a forced march to stop the British advance. En route, they met up with five hundred militia and one hundred regular colonial soldiers led by Brigadier General Silliman. After a hasty discussion about tactics, Arnold and his men continued at full speed to confront the British head-on, while Silliman skirted around to harass the British from the rear.

When they encountered the enemy, though outnumbered five to one, Arnold and his men held the line boldly and bravely for three hours, despite punishing cannon fire and repeated British charges. At one point, the fighting was so close and fierce that Arnold's horse was shot out from under him and he was pinned underneath when the animal dropped and rolled on his leg. He had to fight off and kill a British soldier who ran forward to finish him before he was able to struggle free. Finally, the overwhelming numbers of the enemy pushed him back, but he wasn't giving up. Leaving snipers behind him to slow the British advance, he led the rest of his men away at a fast clip, toward a bridge fifteen miles away where he planned to again try to stop the British advance.

Jim and Blair were amongst those snipers. With grim and icy calm, time and again, Jim clapped one hand around Blair's arm, leading him and the handful of others to places of adequate cover that also provided a sheltered means of escape. They crouched in the shadows behind bushes or up in tall branches, and fought the sense of being awash in a tide of red serge, a handful of men trying to slow thousands. Their aim was deadly and there was time, in the confusion they engendered, to shoot, reload, and shoot again, before they had to turn and race to another forward position, while the British regrouped in frustration and marched on toward them, Silliman's men still annoyingly chewing on their heels.

While the marksmen were hastening ahead to find another place to ambush the British, one of the men muttered disgustedly, "Hidin' in the trees, shootin' 'em like they was no better than animals. T'ain't decent." With a slanting look at Sandburg, he muttered, "Might as well be Injuns."

Blair stiffened but didn't respond. Jim, the only officer in the group, turned on the man and snarled, "They burned out nineteen families back in Danbury. An' they'd kill us all, given the chance. There're two thousand of them, maybe more, and half a dozen of us. You want to stand in a line in front of them like good honourable soldiers, and let them cut us down? Or you just want to run? Huh? You got a better idea of how to slow them down?"

Affronted, the man griped, "I'm just sayin' this ain't the way whitemen fight."

"And I'm saying we're not Europeans, we're Americans," Jim retorted coldly. "This is our land and we can make the rules. We don't have to play the game their way and lose, because we _will_ lose if we don't use every surprise and strategy we've got to keep them off guard." Glancing at Blair, he added, "Just 'cause we might have learned something from the Indians, doesn't make it wrong. We've got to keep learning, keep adapting, or we're going to lose ... and we're going to die."

When the soldier flushed and looked away, Jim turned from him, again taking the lead. "C'mon. We're wasting time here." Over his shoulder, he grated, "It's a free country - or at least, that's what we're fighting for. You can either fight with us, or you can go home. Up to you."

But they couldn't stop the British column, only slow it down, and it eventually reached the bridge Arnold had barricaded. Three times the redcoats rushed his position, but the Americans held them off. Finally, forsaking the bridge that Arnold held, the British line swung away, but he once again hastened across country to block them at yet another bridge. Silliman persisted in chasing along behind, while the snipers moved alongside. Attacking with no warning from the shadows, they aimed to wound rather than kill, because the wounded slowed advances more than the dead.

Finally, though they vastly outnumbered the Americans, the British circled back to their longships, fighting a rearguard action all the way. Though the British claimed the victory for the destruction they'd wrought in Danbury, they hadn't succeeded in wiping out the full line of supply bases. Arnold, led by Jim and Blair, rode to Washington to report the attack. The General was quick to capitalize on the time Arnold and Silliman had bought for him by ordering his remaining supply depots to relocate more than a day's march from all coast lines, rendering them less vulnerable to a surprise attack from the sea.

Alone in his tent that night, thinking about the coming campaign he felt ill-prepared to wage, Washington fretted about his inadequate supplies and the fact that the pay for the soldiers was once again months in arrears. Having caught his personal aide in a plot with Lee to undermine his command, he was unsure who he could trust, but he needed to get a confidential report to Congress very soon, which would essentially be a demand for more timely and substantial support in terms of getting him the supplies he needed and the troops paid on time - or risk losing the war. He couldn't afford the rate of desertion he'd suffered the year before, not and have a hope of holding the British, let alone triumph over them. But the situation was not yet desperate, and he was loathe to cry wolf. Sighing, he told himself he had to be patient and allow Congress to do their part.

But when nothing was any better by the end of May, and the men were grumbling bitterly about the lack of pay, Washington's patience was at an end. With the summer campaign looming ever closer, he needed relief and he needed it soon or he might as well surrender and be done with it. But there was still the issue of who could be trusted absolutely to carry such sensitive information and not have it fall into the wrong hands. He pondered his options and then nodded, having decided upon his couriers. Sitting down at the table in his tent, by the lantern's wavering light, he wrote his short, pithy, and to the point message to Congress.

* * *

The weather was balmy, the ground firm underfoot, and they made good time on the sturdy horses Washington assigned them for the journey. An accomplished horseman, Jim found the rare opportunity to ride across the countryside a pleasant change from hoofing it, but Blair wasn't as sanguine. He'd learned to ride during the time he'd spent living with Washington, and had the skills to sustain the pace, but was he was uncomfortable being so far from the ground. Every time he mounted, he'd grit his teeth and, once in the saddle, refuse to look down lest dizziness swamp him.

"Looking a little green there, Chief," Jim teased him gently their third morning on the trail.

Breathing shallowly, Blair shot him a withering look. Swallowing carefully, he grated, "I told you, I hate heights."

"You're not that far from the ground," Jim reassured him, laughter in his voice. "Trust me, if you fall off, it won't kill you."

Blair ventured a sideways look to the earth that seemed miles below and quickly closed his eyes. Shuddering, he muttered to himself, "I can do this. I can do this."

"Seems to me you can do anything you set your mind to," Jim said staunchly. "Eventually," he added, as he kicked his mount forward, "you'll get used to it."

"If you say so," he replied, his tone clipped, not sounding at all convinced. Nevertheless, he gamely dug his heel into his horse's flanks and followed at the moderate galloping pace his partner set.

When they finally rode into Philadelphia early in the afternoon, Blair looked around curiously. In a lot of ways, it reminded him of Manhattan - loud, crowded, busy, and foul-smelling. Buildings loomed up on either side as they made their way to the center of town, giving him the feeling that he was riding through a narrow, hazard-strewn canyon. Skirting around heavily loaded wagons and wary of people who dashed into the street without first looking to see if the way was clear, he concentrated on keeping his mount under control, and only belatedly thought to call to Jim, "How're you doing? Need to adjust a telescope or anything?"

"I'm okay," he replied, but his lip curled against the rotten stench emanating from the alley they were passing, and his eyes were narrowed against the noise and confusion.

"Better turn it down a bit," Blair counseled, a slight frown of concern puckering his brow, his own fears forgotten for the moment. Jim grimaced but nodded.

A few minutes later, while they waited for a large cumbersome and heavy wagon stacked precariously with boxes and pulled by four horses to clear the intersection, Jim looked around and said, "Did you know that the largest community of Jews in the colonies lives here in Philadelphia? Their synagogue is just down the next street, I think."

Blair's brow quirked and he looked ahead. "Really?" he replied. "I didn't know that."

"We could ask around, see if there are any Sandburgs living here," Jim offered.

His expression guarded and his manner reflecting his nervousness about the idea, Blair flicked his friend a quick look, and then nodded. "Thanks. I'd, uh, I'd like to do that."

"Right after we deliver the General's missive to Congress," Jim assured him, winning a small, tight smile.

Less than half an hour later, they found themselves being shown into a large assembly hall that was strewn with spare wooden tables around which solemn men crowded, several of them muttering to one another while two shouted back and forth at each other. But when they entered the room, all eyes turned to them, some curious, others irritated by the interruption. Few seemed impressed by their less than pristine clothing and stubbled beards.

Jim straightened to something approximating attention and said briskly, "Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I'm Captain James Ellison of the Continental Army, and this is Corporal Blair Sandburg." Holding out the sealed scroll, he told them, "General Washington tasked us to bring this to you safely."

"Come in, come in," one of the younger delegates, a tall, handsome man called as he stood to move toward them. "Good to see you again, Blair," he added, holding out his arm to warmly shake Blair's hand. "You men look like you've seen hard action."

Smiling, Sandburg nodded deferentially. "It's a pleasure to see you again, too, Tom," he replied, adding under his breath for Jim, "Jefferson."

Jefferson took the missive from Jim, broke the seal and waved them to stand by the wall, as there were no empty chairs, while he read aloud. _"My most esteemed and respected colleagues, Once again, I find myself having to beg your earliest attention to the matter of Army's needs for more substantial and timely support. The spring campaign is beginning and, I regret to say, the men have once again not been paid for months, food supplies are inadequate to our needs, many are ill-clothed and we have insufficient ammunition or armament to present a credible challenge to the enemy. The States are not fulfilling their obligations and our mission is at risk, not for lack of bravery or fortitude, but because of pecuniary issues that should not still be plaguing us. I need not remind you that these men serve voluntarily and their families suffer their absence. If they cannot rely upon their pay, many have no choice but to recant their commitment to return home to feed their families. Attached to this letter is a detailed accounting of what is required and I urge you to resolve these matters as your highest priority. General Howe has again taken the field and we are hard-pressed to meet the challenge you have set for us. Your most humble servant, George Washington, Commander in Chief, Continental Army."_

Jim and Blair watched the others as the message was read, seeing some respond with concern, some with irritation, and still others looked impatient. Several called out when Jefferson finished the recital, shouting that it was a disgrace that Washington had to plead like a beggar in the streets for food, let alone munitions, and shot pointed looks at some of their colleagues, who grimaced or smirked as if the army's woes were the least of their concerns. One muttered that the army was nothing but a lazy rabble of drunken sots, and another sneered back, "Maybe so, but they're our rabble, and if they fail, it's our necks that will be stretched."

Reminded of the dire consequences of failure and being tried as traitors to the Crown, the crowd sobered and fell silent.

Thomas Jefferson looked toward the two warriors standing just inside the doorway, men who faced the enemy and didn't just talk about the challenges. "Would you tell us, in your own words, what the situation is like in the field? Tell us about Trenton and Princeton, and about what's happening or is rumored to be happening now."

"Sir, the General doesn't exaggerate the dire nature of our situation," Jim replied soberly, his voice ringing out in the quiet room. "Many, even most, of the men marched to Trenton all night in a raging blizzard, naked, with bare feet on frozen ground. The new recruits pouring in since our victories are willing but untrained. They have inadequate clothing as they are required to clothe themselves and they are not wealthy men. Their weapons are often inadequate, old and cumbersome, and we are forever short of munitions. The winter was hard and ... and starvation was a real threat. Many of the men are weak and sick as a result. The British outnumber us and are far better equipped. But, even so, just a couple of weeks ago, outnumbered five to one, we held the line and forced them out of Connecticut. We don't lack fortitude, sir. We lack food and armament." Looking at the Congressman who had described the army as drunken rabble, he added darkly, "We are a rabble, sir ... a conglomeration of untrained free men doing our best to secure this nation's freedom on behalf of everyone. We don't in the least respect resemble an army - as you can see," he gestured at Blair and himself, "we don't even share a common uniform. And, yes, many of the men do drink, to fill bellies empty of food, to warm bodies frozen by the cold. We'll give our lives to fight for this country, for the beliefs we all share, for freedom - but we could use a little better support from the rest of you, so that _none_ of us die in vain."

Humbled, some seeming ashamed, many men averted their eyes and shook their heads sorrowfully.

"Thank you for your candor, Captain," Jefferson said, bowing formally in respect. Waving at the room at large, he said, "We'll need to talk about what you've told us, and about the General's needs for our support. It may be a few days before we have an answer for him that addresses the specifics of the matter. If you've not yet found accommodation, may I offer you a room where I lodge? I'd be honoured to have the opportunity to talk with you further this evening, over dinner."

"Thank you, sir," Jim replied with quiet dignity. "We're pleased and grateful to accept your hospitality."

After they exchanged information about where to meet later, Jim and Blair saluted the Congress and retired to the street. Behind them, when Jim heard angry shouting erupt behind the closed door, he feared Jefferson had underestimated the task and the time it would take to get all those men to agree to what was needed.

Glad to be outside, they stood a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sun on their faces.

"You did good in there, Jim," Blair murmured admiringly. "Said it straight. Like it is."

Shrugging, he replied, "I just hope they were all listening, Chief. But there are some in that mob that I wouldn't trust with a tadpole, let alone the effort to secure this nation's freedom."

"Divided loyalties, huh," Blair observed thoughtfully.

Snorting, Jim shook his head. "Loyalists, plain and simple, Sandburg. With lines of communication straight into General Howe's office, I've no doubt," he retorted pithily.

"So that's why you didn't say anything about the rumours we've been hearing about Gentleman Johnny up in Quebec, bragging that he's going to win this war before summer's end? Or anything else specific about the General's thoughts about this year's campaign?"

"Yep. That's exactly why."

Blair sniffed as he looked up and down the street, and scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "Maybe we need to do some scouting. Put our ears to the ground or," he grinned, looking up at his friend, "whatever works for you, to see what rumours we can pick up while we're here."

Looping an arm around his shoulders, Jim grinned down at him. "My thoughts exactly, Chief," he agreed. But, before he could say more, a syrupy Southern drawl hailed from across the street, "Why, if it isn't Jimmy Ellison, as I live and breathe!"

Startled, they both turned toward the voice and saw a tall, pretty woman richly dressed in black satin, with a narrow brimmed black hat and lace half covering her elaborately coiffed blond curls. She was waving demurely, and beckoning Jim to join her. When she knew she'd caught his attention, she turned to another woman by her side and seemed to be urging the woman to be on her way.

"Ah," Jim sighed, though he kept the smile on his face. "The lovely and very treacherous Alexandra."

"She looks very glad to see you," Blair teased, laughter in his voice. "An old flame?"

"Hmm. I think she sees my father's fortune more than she ever saw me - probably hoped that if we married, I'd pitch over in one of my fits and die, living her a wealthy widow," Jim countered wryly with an amused glance at his partner. "But, in the interests of the nation's security, and with full knowledge that we'll be fraternizing with the enemy, we'd best pay our respects."

"Oh, no," Blair declined definitively, waving him on. "There's no 'we' about this mission. I'm sure you'll find out a good deal more on your own." He paused and then added, "I, uh, I think I'll look for that synagogue you mentioned."

Gesturing at Alexandra to wait for him, Jim frowned in concern. "You sure you want to do that on your own? I mean ... I'd be glad to go with you."

"Nah, that's alright," Blair assured him with a blithe confidence Jim didn't quite buy. "I'll meet you back here in an hour or so, when Tom's ready to show us to his boarding house."

Jim searched his eyes and then nodded. Clapping him on the shoulder, he said gently, "Good luck, Chief," and then he was loping across the wide street.

"You, too," Blair replied softly, for sentinel ears only, before he resolutely squared his shoulders and retraced their path to the corner that Jim had told him was near the synagogue. He only looked back once, and saw Jim bending to kiss the fair lady's cheek when Alexandra looped her arm in his, as if taking possession of him. "Careful, buddy," he whispered, teasingly. "Looks like she's loaded for bear."

Jim looked up over her head to meet his eyes with a half-smile and a wink. But when Blair turned to continue on his way, Jim's eyes darkened with concern. He wasn't entirely sure it was a good idea to leave his partner to seek out answers to his past on his own. So he scanned the street further ahead, and spotted a tea room not far from the corner where Blair would be turning off. Smoothly, he whirled Alexandra around, all the while chatting gallantly about how good it was to see her again and insisting he buy her a cup of tea to celebrate - and he knew just the place. Flattered, she allowed as that sounded like a wonderful idea.

A few minutes later, he assisted her into a plush, padded little seat at an elegantly draped small round table, and was ordering for the both of them. He then asked after her family, how her father's business interests were going, her mother's health, discovered she'd been recently widowed and showed appropriate sympathy.

And all the while, he was listening to the steady drum of his partner's heartbeat and Blair's dry, tight voice as he asked directions to the synagogue.

* * *

Following the directions he'd been given, Blair soon found the synagogue down a narrow, winding street. It was an impressive building, but not ostentatious. Uncertainly, he stood across the lane and just looked at it, wondering if he could simply enter or if only members were allowed. When a diminutive, elderly, conservatively but well dressed man with long curls and a small black cap on his head hurried down the street and into the door, he gathered up his courage, pulled off his cap and crossed to go inside. At least he knew the building was open and there was someone there.

He found himself in an entry hall that had a quiet elegance and, beyond, he heard the deep voices of men chanting in a language he didn't understand. _'Hebrew,'_ he thought, and smiled nervously, filled both with a sense of anticipation and a kind of homecoming, and a profound fear that he didn't belong there. Taking a breath, he moved further into the building and around a corner into a hallway, where he encountered the old man he'd seen from the street. The fellow was still hurrying as he darted out of what looked like a kind of antechamber or office or meeting room, Blair wasn't sure which, and back along the hall toward the voices that were emanating from an open doorway at the far end.

Startled by his presence, the man pulled up short and blinked up at him. "Oh!" he exclaimed softly, his voice deep and resonant. "You've not been here before. Was there something you wanted?"

"Um, yes, sir," Blair stammered, and then swallowed to pull himself together. He was too conscious that his hands were trembling and his throat was dry as dust. "I'm looking for relatives," he said simply. "My name is Blair Sandburg and, uh, well, I wondered if there are Sandburgs who, um, worship here."

"I see," the old man replied, studying him. "You're not wearing a yarmulke."

"A ... what?" Blair stumbled, unfamiliar with the term.

Touching the small black cap on his head, the man repeated, "Yarmulke. It's a sign of respect to cover our heads in God's presence."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know," Blair replied, flushing in embarrassed apology as he awkwardly tugged his coonskin cap over his curls.

The man frowned at him. "Your name is Sandburg and you didn't know something so ...." But he couldn't seem to find a word to express how intrinsic, how basic, the tradition was.

"My mother died when I was very young," Blair hastened to explain. "And I wasn't raised by people who practiced the Jewish faith."

"It's taken you long enough to try to resume contact with your heritage, hasn't it?" the man challenged dryly, eying his frontier garb.

"This is my first time visiting Philadelphia - I only just arrived today," Blair offered in excuse, feeling as if he was undergoing some kind of inquisition without knowing any of the right answers. "I'm sorry if I'm intruding or ... or if I shouldn't be here."

"Hmm," the elderly fellow ruminated. "Well, you're here now, and you've come with a reasonable request. As it happens, my friend, Bartholomew Sandburg is just down the hall with a few others. We meet here each day at this time to study and discuss the Talmud. You know what that is?"

"I ... the holy book, the scrolls, er, the rules, sort of," Blair hastened to reply, though his tone was uncertain. He'd only read about the general precepts of the Jewish traditions.

"Close enough," the old man sighed, apparently saddened by the depth of his ignorance. Taking Blair's arm, he drew him down the hall. When they reached the open doorway, Blair saw a room richly appointed with crimson curtains and gold fixtures. At the far end was a simple table with an ornate closed box standing upright upon it and candelabra on either side. Benches arranged across the width of the room were divided along the middle aisle by a shoulder-high, intricately-made wrought iron screen. A small group of elderly men were in one corner, facing one another in a rough circle of sorts. They looked up at the intrusion, some nodding respectfully at Blair's companion, others looking at him with some consternation.

"Bartholomew," the fellow called gently, waving his friend to join them. "I've someone here who wishes to speak with you." One of the men frowned and then stood, evidently reluctant to be pulled away from the group and their study. He was tall and spare in build, his clothing reflecting a degree of considerable wealth. His face was long, and he had a hooked nose, vivid blue eyes the colour of Blair's, and his bearing was almost regal. He crossed the room with long strides, and the little guy made the introductions. "Bartholomew, this young man is Blair Sandburg and he's looking for relatives. He's been long away from our traditions and seems to have little knowledge of his heritage. I leave him in your capable hands." With that, the old man bustled into the chamber and took his place with the group.

Bartholomew studied Blair with little favour before waving him back into the hall and along to a small sitting room. When they were settled, he set his piercing gaze upon Blair's face and said with cool courtesy, "Tell me your story, young man, and we'll see if I can be of assistance to you."

"Thank you," Blair sighed gratefully. His gaze skittered around the room and then back to the man's stern visage. "My mother's name was Naomi Sandburg and all I really know is that I was born somewhere here in the North, maybe in New York, but I'm not sure. She never said very much about her family or her background. I grew up in Virginia, on the frontier, and ... and she died when I was seven years old. She would have left home about nineteen years ago. I ... I'd like to find out if I have any family. I'd like to know more about my roots."

"I see," Bartholomew murmured as he rubbed his mouth and chin, his gaze dropping away. "What happened to you after her death?" he asked, but he didn't look up. Nor did he ask about the presence of a father in Blair's life, a fact that Blair found intriguing, even hopeful. As if the man recognized Naomi's name and knew something about her.

"I never knew my father," Blair replied carefully, supplying the unasked for information, just in case it might be helpful. "I was raised by the Cherokee."

Surprised, the older man's eyes jumped to meet his, and then darted away again. He frowned heavily and there was a long moment of silence between them before he sighed. His lips tightened, as if he was debating saying anything further, and then he began to speak, his voice low and his tone distant. "My cousin, Joshua, had a daughter, Naomi, who he cast out nineteen or so years ago because she was ... unclean. She had become with child without a husband and, worse, the man was a gentile. Her behaviour was offensive to us, an abrogation of our Law, our morality."

Nodding, Blair bowed his head. "I understand," he murmured, the man's manner making him feel guilty, dirty ... the reason for his mother's disgrace.

"The family sat Shiva, our tradition for mourning our dead. From that time forward, she was dead to us, and her child was nothing to us," Bartholomew went on. He hesitated, and then said, "We are not a heartless people, but our traditions, our Laws, are rigorous. Naomi ... Naomi broke her parents' hearts. She was their youngest, their only daughter. Ruth, her mother, mourned her deeply. It caused great tension between Joshua and Ruth, and within their family."

Again Blair nodded. Looking up, he hazarded, "Are they, my grandparents, in New York, or was I born here, in Philadelphia?"

"They are in New York; you were born there. But ... but you cannot think of them as your grandparents. You do not exist to them. You are anathema."

Blair's jaw tightened and he stiffened, but then he forced himself to relax and take a deep breath. "Do you know who my father was ... is?"

"No, nor do I have any wish to know," Bartholomew replied fervently. "That was a long time ago. Best to leave it alone, and not open old wounds. You are not some kind of prodigal son who was beloved and for whom the family would kill the fatted calf. You are an outsider; not part of our community."

Unconsciously, Blair wrung his hands together as he struggled with the implacable rejection of his existence and his deep anger about how his mother had been treated. What they had done to her was another kind of murder. "My mother," he said slowly but resolutely, lifting his eyes to meet Bartholomew's, "was not a bad person. She may have made a mistake when she was very young, but she was not evil. She took the best care of me that she could, and she never said a harsh word about her family or ... or their ... their cruel rejection of her, and me, when she probably most needed their love and support. And ... and she paid the ultimate price for her sin, if that's how you want to think about it," he went on bitterly, his words falling fast and hard. "She was stoned to death because someone from her past recognized her. She didn't deserve to die like that, on the side of the road, still trying to protect me." When Bartholomew's gaze dropped, his expression troubled, Blair paused and wrestled with his anger. After all, this man had done nothing more than answer his questions and it wasn't this stranger's fault that his family didn't want him, didn't want to know about him. Blair shook his head, bewildered by how cold people could be to their own child, how mean-spirited the laws that governed their lives. Sighing, he added with less heat, "My ... my mother was a good woman. A good person who did her best. The next time you see your cousin, you can tell him that."

Bartholomew nodded slowly, evidently uncomfortable with their conversation and his presence. "And if I ever do tell him of our meeting, what would you have me tell him about you?"

Shrugging, barely able to contain his fury and the stinging pain of being so bluntly and arbitrarily rejected, Blair stood. "You can tell him that I try to be a good man; a man my mother would be proud of. You can tell him that I'm a soldier in the Continental Army, a scout and personal messenger for George Washington," he rasped hoarsely. "You can tell him that I'm fighting for his freedom." Blair started to turn away and then hesitated. His voice very low, near breaking, he added, "And you can tell him that ... that I wanted to know him and my grandmother and the rest of my family. That I always wished and hoped that I had a family, somewhere, to love and to ... to belong to. But ... but I don't need them, and never wanted anything from them; I just wanted to know to them and let them know about me. I've found my own family, maybe not of the blood but family just the same. I have a place where I belong. So if ... if he or Ruth ever wondered or worried about me, you can tell them I'm doing fine."

Coming to his feet, Bartholomew nodded solemnly, and then he held out his hand. Surprised, Blair took it and, as they briefly shook hands, man to man, his elderly cousin said, "I will tell him, Blair Sandburg. I'll tell him that, from what I've seen, he can be proud of the boy who bears his name."

Blair's throat tightened at the unexpected approbation, and he looked away to hide the emotion in his eyes. "Thank you," he replied simply. "Thank you for your time and your honesty."

With that, he turned and walked away, down the hall and out of the building. He strode quickly, blindly, for a block and then, panting hard, nauseated, he leaned his shoulder against a brick wall. Bowing his head, one arm pressed across his body, he covered his face with a trembling hand. "I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered brokenly. "I'm sorry they hurt you so bad." Tears filled his eyes and, though he tightly closed his lashes to contain them, one dribbled onto his cheek. Torn by fury and pain, he fought the urge to sob. All his life, he'd wondered about his family, imagined finding them, finding his father. And now he wished he hadn't looked, hadn't asked, for the answers left him far emptier than he'd been when all he'd had was his dreams.

* * *

Jim's head tilted and he lost the train of the vacuous conversation. Cutting across Alexandra's words, he stood and said with hurried gallantry, "I'm sorry, Alex, but I've just realized that I was on my way to an important appointment. Seeing you again drove it right out of my mind, but I must go. If you'll forgive me, I'll call at your home later this weekend."

Though piqued by his abrupt manner, she was equally evidently charmed by his words. "Of course," she allowed with marginal warmth. "We've only begun to get caught up. Please, do, stop by Sunday afternoon. My parents would love to see you again, I'm sure."

He smiled with as much sincerity as he could muster and then hastened out the door. Once on the street, he broke into a run to the end of the block and around the corner and then skidded into a narrow street, where he saw Blair hunched against a brick building, halfway down before the lane curved out of sight. He only slowed his pace when he neared his friend, and then he gently gripped Blair's shoulders and drew him into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"I'm sorry, Chief," he murmured huskily. "I'm sorry."

Blair turned into his embrace, and spastically gripped the edges of his jacket, as if he needed to be anchored, just as Jim so often needed to be grounded by Blair's touch. Sandburg shook with his effort to regain his control; he dragged in one deep breath and then another, sniffed and swallowed hard. Pushing away, he stepped back from Jim, scraped his hands over his face and took another shuddering breath.

"You heard," he said flatly, knowing the observation was unnecessary but still evidently struggling to find words, to figure out what he felt, what he wanted to say. With a brittle laugh, evading Jim's concerned gaze, he shook his head ruefully. "Can't have any secrets from a sentinel, I guess."

"Did you want this to be a secret?" Jim asked quietly, with a scowl of concern.

Sniffing again, Blair shook his head. "No ... no," he replied more calmly. "Not from you. I just ... uh, don't like to break down in front of anyone," he explained self-consciously. Pulling off his cap, his gestures quick and jerky, his hands still unsteady, he raked fingers through his hair to drag it off his face and behind his ears and then, giving up the effort to pretend a normalcy he didn't feel, he sighed and his shoulders slumped. Looking up at Jim, his eyes reddened and his lashes spangled with moisture, he shrugged again, helplessly. "I didn't know whether this would be a dead end or not. But, I, uh, I didn't expect ... I didn't expect to be told I pretty much don't exist, you know? Or to hear such a ... a cold justification for how they treated my mother."

"People can be hard when their most basic beliefs are challenged, Blair," he replied, wishing he had something more consoling to offer. "It's not personal."

Sandburg snorted and his lips twisted in a wry half-smile. "Personal? No, not toward me. To be personal, they'd have to actually know me. But it was damned sure personal for my mother, Jim. Man, they were cold."

Unable to disagree, at a loss for words, Jim looked off down the street and nodded bleakly. Naomi's parents hadn't reacted any differently than a number of others he'd known or heard about over the years but pointing that out would hardly make Blair feel any better. But then he said, "I heard you tell him you had a family."

Blair's smile softened then, and he nodded. "Yeah. Thanks to you, I do."

"Alright, then," he replied, a smile quirking on his lips. Looping an arm around Blair's shoulders, he drew him back along the street, effectively turning both their backs upon Blair's past heritage and directing them toward their shared future. "C'mon. We should be getting back to meet Jefferson."

Badly wanting to put the pain behind him, Blair searched for something else to talk about as they walked along the uneven pavement. Finally, doing his best to find a light teasing tone, he asked, "How'd it go with the fair Alexandra?"

Rolling his eyes, Jim laughed without humour. "She is as superficial and as obvious as she ever was," he replied very dryly. "A widow now. The poor guy probably died of boredom. Looks like she's already trolling for the next rich sucker she can get her hooks into. But you'll see for yourself. We're going visiting on Sunday afternoon. They'll try to pick our brains about the General's plans, and we'll see if we can find out what they know about Howe's intentions. Should be fun."

Laughing, Blair shook his head. "You've got a very strange idea about what constitutes fun, my friend," he chuckled.

Jim just quirked a brow and gave him a crooked, closed-mouth grin.

* * *

Over dinner, in a quiet corner of the tavern close to the boarding house, Jefferson soberly told them, "There are rumours of an assassination plot to kill Washington."

They both stopped eating to stare at him, and then Jim frowned as he reached for his glass of red wine. "I suppose that's to be expected. Without him ...." He shrugged and his voice died away. After taking a sip, he asked, "Anything more to the rumour? Like how? When? Who, maybe?"

Jefferson shrugged as he sliced into his beef. "No, nothing specific. The Loyalists are behind it. Whether the British know about it or encourage it is hard to say. Since George is known to always be with his troops, often out in front, at least from what I've heard, it would be easy to accomplish during the confusion of battle." Sighing, he set his knife and fork down, his appetite apparently waning. "You're right. Without Washington, we don't have a hope. It's his ... integrity and dignity, his absolute conviction in the cause that holds it all together."

"If you're right, that it's planned for a battle situation," Blair mused, idly twisting his glass in his hands, "then, well, maybe there aren't that many opportunities, and there might not be for some time. We, uh, we tend to pick our fights."

Jefferson smiled grimly. "So I understand," he allowed wryly, but with no evident censure.

"Alright," Jim said. "We'll warn the General and keep an eye out; see if we can figure out who it is before there's trouble. Watch for someone who's got more money to spare than would be expected of a common soldier. Given that we haven't been paid for months, that shouldn't be all that hard to spot." Pushing his plate away, finished with the meal, he asked, "So, we going to get the money and supplies we need?"

Emptying the carafe of wine into their glasses, Jefferson replied hollowly, "You'll be given a formal response to take back to George late on Monday. But, candidly?" he went on, as he lifted his glass. "You'll get the usual reassurances and not much else. The States are hard-pressed to fund their own militias. We have little or no experience with provisioning on such a massive scale and, as you both well know, support for this war is lacking in too many quarters. What support there is seems to waffle almost on a daily basis." Sighing, he shook his head, but then confided with guarded optimism, "I've heard that there is one person of wealth who doesn't wish to be named who may - may - contribute substantially to address the backpay issue."

"Why wouldn't he want to be known?" Blair asked curiously. "Sounds like a good Samaritan to me."

Jefferson hesitated and then told them, "He's a Quaker."

"Oh," Blair murmured, his brows arching with understanding. "Like Benjamin Franklin and even General Greene. I hear his family threatened to disown him for violating their commitment to non-violent resistance."

Bringing the conversation back on track, Jim said bluntly, "If the pay isn't addressed, and even if it is but we don't get food and supplies, desertion's going to be a big problem again this year."

"I know," Tom replied bleakly. Frustrated anger flickered over his face, but as quickly disappeared behind his veneer of calm deliberation. "We must win this war," he said unequivocally. Looking at them solemnly, his gaze shifting between them, "I'm sorry, for I have no answers as to how. But we cannot lose."

"Yeah, well, you keep telling your fellow Congressmen that," Jim returned sharply, impatient with the rhetoric when substantive relief wasn't assured. "Britain doesn't deal gently with traitors."

A wry smile quirking his lips, Jefferson lifted his glass in a toast. "To victory," he offered hopefully.

Grimly, they saluted him in turn. "To victory."

* * *

On Saturday, ignoring his partner's protests, hauling him unceremoniously out of the room they shared, Jim took Blair shopping. "I know, I know," he reiterated, waving off the objections. "We hardly need clothing suited to a drawing room when we're back in the bush. But we can't go visiting rich Loyalists dressed for war and expect them to forget who they're talking to."

"Man, I don't see what you need me there for," Blair whined as they tromped down the narrow wooden staircase, out onto the porch and down to the street. "This is your world, not mine."

"My world is your world, Chief," Jim replied archly. Giving him a fond look, he jostled Blair's shoulder. "Family, remember?"

Snorting, Blair shook his head, but he grinned.

"Besides," Jim went on, teasing as he ruffled Sandburg's wild curls. "There may be other children there you can play with."

"Oh, that's low," he retorted, laughing as he ducked away. "Mocking my best sources like that."

Unrepentant, Jim shrugged. "And if there aren't any kids, there'll still be women: Alexandra, her mother, maybe her sister, Peggy, who I guess would be about sixteen-years-old now, and the maids. Bat those baby blues and they'll be putty in your hands. Probably fall all over themselves to tell you King Georgie's secrets."

"Ah, so that's why you want me along," Blair chuckled. "You want _me_ to be the spy and do all the work."

"You're my secret weapon, Chief," Jim agreed with a complacent smile. Shaking his head, he added bemusedly, "They all seem to think you're harmless."

"It's a gift, Jim," Blair replied solemnly, though his eyes twinkled merrily. "It's a gift."

Jim snorted and shook his head.

* * *

Sunday afternoon, they dressed in their new finery: high collared dark gray loosely-fitted frock coats, a burgundy waistcoat for Jim and one of crimson silk for Blair, pristine white shirts with frilled cuffs and lacey cravats, tight fitting black breeches, black knee-high finely woven socks with garters, and patent leather shoes that gleamed so brightly that Blair could see his reflection in their dark surfaces. Standing before the pitted, wavy mirror over the bureau, his hair pulled back and being tied with a black velvet ribbon by Jim, he squirmed against the high starched collar, grimacing as he fingered the cravat.

"Relax, Chief, you look fine," Jim told him, unable to restrain a grin at his partner's discomfiture. Patting him lightly on the shoulders, he added cheerfully, "Actually, you clean up pretty good."

"This ... this isn't who I am, Jim," he replied unhappily. "I feel like a fraud ... no, actually, I feel like an idiot."

"Well, it's not who I am, either, Junior," Jim said more firmly as he picked up his top hat and handed one to Blair. "But this isn't for fun. We're on a mission, here, and this is the uniform of the day, so suck it up."

"Yes, sir," Blair answered sardonically as he placed the tall hat on his head at a rakish angle. "Reporting for duty, sir."

"Smart ass," he laughed, opened the door to the hall and, with a wave, ushered his partner out.

They rode across the city in style and, after he'd observed Jim tipping his hat to the ladies promenading in their Sunday best, enjoying the warm April day, Blair mimicked the courtesy. Twenty minutes later, they dismounted in front of a rambling three story yellow brick mansion faced with a deep covered wooden verandah painted a rich ivory cream, and set amidst lavish gardens on gently rolling grass on the edge of town. They were admitted by a butler and ushered into the drawing room. Large and fronted by tall French windows and doors, the room was bright and furnished with silk-covered settees, chairs and gleaming occasional tables arranged in conversational circles around fireplaces on either end.

The butler offered them glasses of sarsaparilla from bottles arranged on a side table, which they accepted, and said the family would join them momentarily. When he closed the double doors on his way out, Blair looked at Jim and cocked his head. "You hear anything interesting?"

"The master of the house and the wife are arguing because he's not happy about entertaining two rebels, and she thinks a match with the Ellison dynasty would be a good thing," Jim replied sardonically with a twist of his lip.

"Oh, yeah, this is going to be a real fun time," Blair teased ironically, toasting his partner with his glass. Jim just rolled his eyes, and then the doors opened and the family swept in, effusive with their greetings and pleasure to see Jim again and meet his handsome friend.

Jim affected the introductions for Blair. "Mr. Elliot Shippen, and his lovely wife, Jeannine, and his daughters, Peggy and Mrs. Alexandra Barnes. And this is my associate, Mr. Blair Sandburg."

"Sandburg?" Elliot echoed genially. "Would you be related to the diamond merchants in New York, then?"

"Distantly," Blair replied with an engaging smile. "My branch of the family tended toward more scholarly pursuits."

"Ah," Elliot replied, seeming to not quite know what to make of that, so he turned to Jim while the butler served everyone with their beverage, and then offered delicacies to nibble on from a tray he'd carried in with him. "How's William? I've not seen him in far too long. And Steven?"

"Father's well," Jim assured him blithely, "and busy as ever. The last time I visited Steven and his family on the farm, he was looking robust and very proud of his three children."

"Good, good," he acknowledged, and then seemed at a loss for words.

While the two daughters regarded the visitors with avid admiration, Mrs. Shippen picked up the conversational ball when her husband fumbled it. "We were so pleased to hear Alexandra ran into you the other day. What brings you to Philadelphia?"

"Business," Jim replied smoothly. "Following up on partnerships, ensuring open lines of communication in these difficult times, and arranging logistics for the transport of goods."

"Really?" Elliot jumped back in, an edge to his voice. "I'd, uh, heard that you'd joined the Continental Army."

"Yes, I did," Jim affirmed. "Best way to know what's going on is to be where it's happening, don't you agree? Only way to assess threats and opportunities, and future implications for commerce, is to observe events first hand."

"Ahhhh," Elliot smiled, his tight shoulders relaxing. "I should have realized you're your father's son; always got the jump on the rest of us. Bold, if a bit dangerous."

Shrugging, Jim sipped at his glass and then said with a slightly disparaging tone, "There's been more walking and running than real danger, so far at least. I suppose a lot has to do with what Howe plans for this year's campaign."

Shifting to place an arm around Jim's shoulders, very much the senior, wiser and better connected fellow in the room, Elliot leaned close to say with a confidential, conspiratorial air, "He's not made his mind up, yet, son. Gentleman Johnny wants William to meet him on the Hudson, but William has a yen to enjoy the life here in the capital."

Looking into the depths of his glass, Jim nodded sagely. "Either would have its merits in making things difficult for Washington. Splitting the colonies would complicate defence, and losing the capital would be, well, a telling blow."

"Exactly," Elliot beamed. "Either way, this ridiculous rebellion will be over and we can all get back to business as usual."

"Oh, enough talk about business!" Alexandra pouted, and her sister bobbed her head in enthusiastic agreement. Turning to Blair, Peggy observed winningly, "We've been ignoring you, Mr. Sandburg. Please forgive us."

"Not at all," he replied with a winning smile. "Though my family was academically inclined, I've an interest in business and how I invest my, uh, time, so it's always interesting to hear how the future might play out. But, you're quite right. On a lovely day like this, it's a sin not to enjoy the fine weather and such very fair company."

Mrs. Shippen raised a brow and asked, "Your family must miss you while you're here, Mr. Sandburg."

"Alas, I'm an orphan, Madam, and haven't yet started a family of my own, so there's none to miss me while I pursue future opportunities," he assured her.

"Indeed," she replied, intrigued to hear that a Sandburg so young must have already inherited his portion of the family fortune and was still unattached. The fact that he was Jewish was inconvenient, of course, but still ... a rich, eligible bachelor was not to be scorned, and he was bound to have other rich bachelor friends, especially if he was a member of the Ellison family circle. "Peggy," she suggested genially, "why don't you show Mr. Sandburg our gardens. We've some lovely early roses I'm sure he'd admire."

"Wonderful idea," Blair agreed heartily, handing his glass to the butler and holding a hand out to Peggy. "If you'd indulge me, I'd be very grateful."

Not to be outdone, and clearly uninterested in remaining in the company of her parents, Alexandra asked, "Jimmy, how about you? Would you like to see Mama's gardens?"

"I'd enjoy that very much," he replied with a broad smile.

For the next hour, the young people rambled around the extensive grounds. Peggy, in an effort to impress Blair with her sophistication, confided that she was the source of her father's knowledge about the brilliant British General's considerations. While she'd been visiting cousins in New York over the winter, she'd made the acquaintance of a dashing British major, John Andre, who was engaged in intelligence work for Howe, and they'd formed a friendship such that they corresponded regularly. He was suitably impressed, congratulating her on the astuteness of her conquests, and she giggled as she leaned more closely upon his arm. Alexandra told Jim more about her late husband, how he'd been dead set against the rebellion because 'it would be the ruination of the colonies'. He listened and nodded sagely, but refrained from comment. Looking out across the lawns, she said idly, "Men well placed in Washington's camp and who would be willing to help end this travesty would earn a great deal of gratitude from some quarters." And then she gave him a coy, sideways look that had less vacuity and more slyness than she had used to reveal when he'd known her in her youth.

"Really?" he murmured, and quirked his brows as if interested in hearing more.

"Hmm," she nodded. "In fact, you might want to attend a small soiree I'm holding in my home tomorrow evening. Nothing grand, just an intimate gathering of like-minded people who would, I'm sure, appreciate the opportunity of knowing you better."

His eyes hooded, he again nodded. And then he looked up into her eyes. "I think I'd like that very much. What time would be convenient and where would I find your residence?"

Pleased, she gave him the information and then graciously suggested he'd be welcome to bring the charming Mr. Sandburg, as well.

* * *

Later that evening, over another fine dinner in the nearby tavern, Jim and Blair advised Jefferson of what they'd learned that afternoon.

"Damnable Loyalists," the Congressman growled angrily. "They're talking treason!"

"Yes, they are," Jim agreed soberly. "And it sounds like they're going to actively try to recruit us tomorrow evening."

"That's grounds for arrest," Jefferson stated flatly.

"Uh huh," Blair grunted. "We were thinking you might want to have reinforcements nearby. We don't know how many people will be there. But ... well, we might not want to shut the whole thing down. Watching them, even feeding them false information - given the link straight into Howe's office - might be as useful right now as putting them out of action."

"We could have some kind of signal after we leave that would let you know whether to arrest those who depart after us, or to let it go, if they don't reveal anything substantial enough to warrant arrest," Jim added. "Or maybe, even better, we could debrief afterward, and the miscreants could be apprehended the next day so their arrest wouldn't be so directly linked to us."

Jefferson nodded thoughtfully. "Let me get back to you tomorrow before you set out for the evening."

* * *

"Alright, here's what we're going to do," Jefferson told them in their room late the next afternoon. "You go ahead with the meeting this evening, and then brief me on your return. If there are clear grounds, I'll have the traitors picked up tomorrow. We'll attempt to keep your names out of it - and we'll also leave the Shippen family out of it. You're right. They could prove useful in the future, especially the pert and pretty Peggy with her friend in intelligence."

"Fair enough," Jim agreed, and Blair nodded solemnly.

* * *

Once more in their city clothes, as Blair had come to call his new finery, they arrived at the time suggested, only to discover that Alexandra had arranged for them to be there before the others were expected. She greeted Jim as an old friend, with a lingering kiss on his cheek, and offered them wine. While waiting for her manservant to serve the libation, she gestured to a portrait of a distinguished elderly man over the fireplace. "I don't believe you ever met my husband, Jim," she said blithely. "Dear, departed Reggie."

Blair's brows arched. The man was older than her father. And then he looked around at the plush furnishings, the silver and gold fixtures; the house was every bit as grand or more than was her family home. Schooling his face to neutrality, he locked gazes with Jim for a moment before accepting the crystal goblet of wine the servant handed to him. "My condolences on your loss," he murmured. "If it's not too painful a subject, how did your husband die?"

"Suddenly," she replied with hollow coldness. "Despite his age, he was as strong as an ox, and we thought he'd live forever. But, poor man, he took ill one night, perhaps from something he'd eaten, and was gone by morning."

"Shocking," Jim said evenly.

"Very," she replied, and then smiled. "But the old dear left me well provided for, as you can see." Turning to Blair, she said, "I presume you know that Jimmy and I were very close years ago." Batting her eyelashes at Jim, she went on, "Our fathers thought we'd make a good match."

Willing to play along, Blair replied, "And now, here you are again, the two of you free. Funny how things work out sometimes."

"Yes, my thoughts exactly," she agreed. "You're a very astute man, Mr. Sandburg. I trust I'm not betraying a confidence when I say my sister was quite taken with you."

"You're too kind," he rejoined, pretending to be pleased though he was finding her and her family increasingly repulsive. "Your sister is a delightful young woman," he added for good measure.

Jim turned away, apparently to stifle a cough, and Blair was hard-pressed not to laugh himself. The whole situation seemed surreal. She was like a black widow spider, already busy weaving a web around Jim before her husband was hardly cold in his grave. He'd no doubt that the man had died from something he'd eaten; his only question was whether it was arsenic or strychnine.

Further conversation was prohibited when the butler announced three gentlemen. Curiously, Blair studied them. Their names meant nothing to him, but he could see that Jim recognized the men, all of them evidently well-heeled merchants. For the first time, Blair fully understood his friend's concerns about where William Ellison's loyalties rested - these men were his contemporaries and, from the exchange of greetings, they evidently knew the elder Ellison well.

The conversation began with a prelude of genial generalities and gradually moved into a subtle dance of eliciting information and mutual interests. They were sounding him and Jim out, wondering how far they could be trusted. Quaking inside, desperately worried that his lack of any social training or common knowledge of people, places and events would give his charade of the rich young adventurer away, he guarded his tongue and gladly let Jim take the lead. The wine flowed and gradually the men relaxed, reassured as much as anything by the fact that Alexandra had obviously set her cap for William's tall and distinguished son.

Before two hours had passed, they were outright offered a small fortune if they could be helpful in arranging an 'accident' for General Washington. When they indicated they'd do what they could, one of the men laughed with relief. "So fortunate that business brought you here at this time. We've another 'friend' in the camp, but he's ... well, I think he's less reliable."

"Oh? Maybe we know him," Jim suggested. "Always useful to have friends nearby."

"Oh, I doubt that," the fellow demurred, lifting his goblet. "He's riffraff. Not the sort you'd care to associate with, I'm sure. No, young gentlemen, you'll do well, I think, without that scoundrel's help."

Letting it go, Jim nodded and lifted his glass in a toast to their new acquaintances and a long and profitable association.

* * *

"Too bad you couldn't get his name," Thomas Jefferson said later that night, then shrugged. "We'll bring them in tomorrow. Maybe one of them will be willing to reveal it for consideration in the sentencing."

"Worth a try," Jim said. "What about Alexandra? She probably murdered her husband."

Sighing, Jefferson shook his head. "Too late to prove that now. Best, I think, if we don't have an overt connection between the arrests and the little coven gathering tonight. We'll watch her. We'll watch them all."

Noting that Blair was fidgeting in clothes he found inordinately uncomfortable, Jim started to wrap up the discussion. "Fair enough; we'll leave all the intrigue to you. What about the Congress' response to Washington?"

"Hopefully, the debate will conclude in time to get you something tomorrow, but I fear a letter to him probably won't be ready until Wednesday."

Jim grimaced unhappily at the delay, but there wasn't much he could do about it; as desirable as democracy was, it wasn't a particularly efficient system of governance, especially in times of crisis. Nodding will ill grace, he stood. "Well, it's late. Time to call it a night. We'll talk with you again tomorrow."

* * *

Dressed in their more casual and comfortable garb, they spent the next day wandering around the city. Hoping to gather more clandestine information, Jim listened in to conversations, while Blair stood watch and ensured he didn't go too deep into his sense of hearing. But they didn't learn any more than they already knew. Late in the afternoon, they went to the Congressional Hall and learned that Tom had been right the night before; the formal response to the General wouldn't be ready until late morning. Disgruntled, chafing to be on their way, worried about the unknown assassin in the ranks, they returned to the boarding house to pack their gear to be ready to move as soon as they obtained the missive the next day.

Shortly after their return, there was a sharp rap at the door, and Blair answered to find Alexandra standing in the hall. She was flushed and her eyes flashed, and her smile seemed forced as she asked to be allowed entry to speak to Jim.

Backing up, he opened the door more widely to allow her to pass, and then didn't quite close it, aware that it would be indelicate to entertain a lady behind a firmly closed door in a public boarding house. Frowning to himself, he thought it strange that she'd risked her reputation by coming to see them without any chaperone, but he figured she wanted to further her conquest of Jim.

He turned to find her standing close to the wall, glaring at his partner.

"You must think me a fool," she hissed. Flicking a look at Sandburg, she grated, "And you - my father checked you out with the Jews he knows in the city. You're nobody. Nobody knows you. You have no inheritance." Looking from him to Jim, she drew a cocked pistol from her reticule and snarled, "You lied, didn't you? You're not Loyalists at all. You were only there to spy on us."

Lifting his hands, Jim said, "Put the gun down, Alex. Shooting us won't make anything better."

"We execute spies," she snarled in response, her expression ugly with self-righteous anger.

Taking the opportunity of her attention being off him, afraid she was about to shoot, Blair considered the distance between them and decided she was too far to lunge for, to grab the pistol. With a swift, smooth move, he pulled his hunting knife from his belt, drew his arm back to throw it, and yelled, "Hey!"

Startled, she turned her head toward him and, seeing him ready to attack, she jerked the pistol around and fired, just as he threw the blade. Blown back by the impact of the bullet, Blair banged into the door, slamming it closed and then dropped to the floor. Vaguely, he was aware of Jim cursing and the sound of his friend rushing across the room. Someone started banging on the door behind him. Panting for breath, aware of a blazing burn in his side, he pushed himself up onto his knees. Jim was kneeling over Alex, and she wasn't moving. Blair didn't expect she would; he usually hit what he aimed for. The banging on the door grew more frenzied and Jim yelled, "Just a minute." Standing, he stepped over Alex's body, swiftly helped Blair shift clear of the door, and then opened it to the harridan who owned the house, but blocked her view of the room. "Sorry, sorry, Mrs. Evans," he said hastily. "We were cleaning our weapons and a shot went off accidentally. No harm done. But thanks for checking so swiftly."

She gave him a narrow look and huffed. "If there's been any damage, you'll pay for it," she said sternly.

"No problem," he assured her, already closing the door, anxious to be rid of her. "We're leaving tomorrow and you can do a full inspection before we go."

"You can be assured I will, young man," she promised him and stomped away, muttering about soldiers and guns.

Closing the door, Jim wheeled to drop to one knee beside Blair, who was leaning against the wall beside the door, pressing a hand to the blood seeping through his buckskin shirt. "How bad?" Jim demanded, reaching to lift the edge and examine the wound along his ribs.

His teeth gritted, sounding disgusted, Blair rasped, "It was a pea shooter and she was a lousy shot. Gouged my skin, that's all. Hurts like blazes, though." Licking his lips, and wincing as Jim felt around the raw edges of torn skin and muscle, he grated, "Get my pack. Got some bandages in it. Need the herbs, too."

In seconds, Jim was back at his side and assisting him out of his bloody shirt. While Jim helped him doctor and bind the wound, he glanced at the body. "Why'd you tell Mrs. Evans that everything was fine? We need to report this."

"When hell freezes over," Jim replied caustically. "Young, attractive, rich widow stabbed to death by common soldier. Her family will claim she was trying to defend her virtue and that you murdered her. We've got to get rid of the body."

"What?" Blair exclaimed, and then smothered a yelp when Jim tightened the bandage around his body to hold the dressing in place.

"She was right about one thing, Chief," Jim said grimly. "Spies are executed. You saved her from a hanging. Not to mention saved my skin."

"Don't mention it," he replied with a wan smile. "Just doin' my job."

Jim's lips tightened and he shook his head. When the weapon had fired and Blair had fallen back, he'd thought ... been scared .... Ruthlessly, he pushed the shaky thoughts and feelings away. "Yeah, well, next time?" he said roughly, "Try to do your job without bleeding all over the place, okay?"

Blair's expression softened as he read the clear anxiety for him that lingered in his friend's eyes. "Sure," he agreed as he gripped Jim's arm reassuringly. "Live and learn, right?"

"Right," Jim agreed heartily, and ruffled his hair fondly before gently easing Blair up and over to the chair by the window. "Sit tight while I clean the blood off the floor and find the bullet."

Slightly hunched and wishing he had a telescope in his head to turn down the flaring burn that pulsed in his side, he watched Jim quickly wash his blood off the plank flooring, and then fill the basin with water from the ewer on the bureau to soak the blood out of his shirt. Once that was done, he rolled the damp shirt and shoved it into Blair's pack. Only then did he turn to the body. Kneeling, he wrenched out the knife and wiped it down. "Looks like it pierced her heart, Chief. She didn't bleed at all."

Swallowing, Blair looked away and nodded. He'd never killed a woman before. He hadn't had a choice, and he knew it, but he didn't feel good about it. "We have to tell Tom," he said, suddenly feeling weary.

Straightening, Jim crossed the room and laid the knife on the table beside him. "We don't tell anybody," he said harshly. "It was self-defence and she was a goddamned spy, Sandburg. I'm not going to risk anyone second guessing what happened here or a witchhunt for someone to punish for the death of one of society's darlings. We're in a war, here, and she was the enemy. I'll take her body out tonight, after everyone's asleep. Leave it in an alley. Let it be a mystery."

Pressing his lips together, Blair leaned back to rest his head against the chair and closed his eyes. After a long moment, he nodded wordlessly in reluctant agreement. When he lifted his head, he saw Jim prying at the wall with his own knife. "The bullet?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jim grunted. "You're right; it was just a small ball. You must've absorbed most of the force - it's barely dented the plaster." Pocketing the round pellet, he said, "I'm going to go get us something to eat later, and check in with Tom to confirm the letter will be ready tomorrow before noon, like he figured. You going to be able to ride out once we get it?"

"Yeah, sure," Blair nodded. "Providing the damned horse doesn't throw me."

Snorting, Jim shook his head. "Whine, bitch, moan and complain," he teased. "You gotta do something about that attitude of yours, Corporal."

Snickering half-heartedly, Blair nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. Will do, sir." Feeling groggy with fatigue, figuring he was suffering mild shock, he again leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Wake me when you get back," he mumbled, already drifting into sleep.

Chewing on his lip, Jim studied him for a moment in silence. And then he left the room, locking the door behind him.

He was still sleeping when Jim returned and he only half-wakened when his friend shifted him onto the bed and covered him with a blanket. About all he noticed was that the room was dark but for the glow of a candle on the table. He mumbled that he was thirsty, and Jim supported his head while holding a cup of cool water to his lips. After he drank and muttered his thanks, he tried to roll onto his side and groaned at the sharp pulling pain along his ribs.

"Easy, Chief," Jim soothed him and helped him get comfortable. He closed his eyes as Jim tucked the blanket around his shoulders and, with the comfort of Jim's hand gently rubbing his back, he quickly relaxed into deep sleep.

When he woke again, it was morning and Jim was snoring softly beside him.

The body was gone.

His hand pressed against his side, he carefully shifted onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Thinking back over the last few days, his jaw tightened and his lips thinned; all in all, he hadn't had a great time in Philadelphia and he rather hoped he'd never, ever, have to come back. Sighing, he closed his eyes and dozed until Jim stirred and woke.

"How're you doin'?" his partner asked, rolling onto an elbow to look down at him.

"Okay," he replied, lifting a hand to cover a yawn. "I'm hungry."

"Good sign," Jim smiled and got up.

Stiff, his wound sore, Blair slowing pushed himself up to sit on the side of the bed. Grimacing, he took a few deep breaths and, looking at his friend, he told himself it could have been a lot worse, a whole lot worse.

Wordlessly, Jim gently soaked off the bloody dressing, wound fresh linen around Blair's chest, and helped him into one of Jim's warm, flannel shirts. And then his partner also eased on his buckskin vest, as the day was chill and drizzly, muttering, "Don't want you bitching about how damp it is, getting a chill and sneezing all over the place."

Smiling at the transparent concern, Blair waved off further assistance, and shuffled to the chair by the window. He was ravenous and gratefully tucked into the cold meats, cheese and bread Jim had brought the night before. When he started to stand, Jim told him to stay in his chair while Ellison packed the last of their gear.

"Where'd you -" Blair started to ask, his gaze upon the empty floor by the wall next to the door.

"A few blocks away, in an alley," Jim cut in. Straightening, he slipped their packs over his shoulder, and turned to face Blair. "We don't talk about it again. It never happened." His gaze dropping, Blair nodded. But when Jim crossed the room and gripped his shoulder, he looked up into his friend's eyes. "But that won't mean I'll forget that I owe you my life," Jim told him. With a crooked smile, Blair held out a hand and Jim hauled him to his feet.

"I hope the letter is ready," he said as he moved toward the door.

"Me, too," Jim agreed, following behind.

They had to wait until Mrs. Evans assured herself that they hadn't trashed the room but, then, their bill having been paid in advance by Jefferson, they went to the stable behind the boarding house and saddled their horses. Jim boosted him into his saddle so he wouldn't pull the wound open, and they rode slowly across town to the Congress Hall.

* * *

They had to wait an hour on a hard bench by the entrance, but finally Jefferson appeared and handed the sealed scroll to them with a broad smile.

"What? There's better news in here than we expected?" Jim asked hopefully, as he tucked it into his pack.

Shaking his head, Tom replied sardonically, "No, just the usual empty assurances from Congress ... but that other possible source of funds I told you about? He's donated fifty thousand dollars to the cause. It'll cover the back pay and the cost of provisioning for the summer. I'll keep working on the rest of them, to get you more support by winter, or at least I'll do my best."

"Oh, man, that's great news," Blair sighed, vastly relieved that they wouldn't be returning empty-handed except for all the bad news they'd picked up over the last few days.

"Hmm, well, I've got some not so great news," Jefferson said with a sigh. "The conspirators refuse to admit to anything, and certainly aren't willing to disclose the name of the potential assassin already in the camp."

"So ...?" Jim asked with a frown.

"So we'll try them using your signed testimony to me, and they'll hang," he replied darkly.

Blair swallowed and looked away. He knew war meant death, but it was all just so ugly. And so many people were still divided over the revolution. Hanging four prominent and well regarded Loyalists wasn't going to endear the rest. If they weren't careful, they'd end up beating the British only to find themselves divided and at war amongst themselves. Hesitantly, he asked, "Do they have to hang? I mean ... I know they're traitors to the cause, an' all. But ... we are fighting for them, too, aren't we? For all Americans? If they hang, their friends, their families, they'll hate the revolution and those of us who support it even more. It's like a poison that would rot our country from within. Couldn't, well, couldn't they just be held in prison? Besides, if you put them on trial, and our statements to you have to come out, well, then, someone else will alert the assassin about us, and that might make it even more difficult to figure out who he is. I don't know - maybe a summary conviction or holding them pending investigation or something, until the war is over. Hanging them ... I, well, I think that might only bring more people to their cause. Like they were martyrs, or something."

Jefferson looked at him, and then frowned as he studied Sandburg's face. "You feeling alright, Blair? You're looking a little peaked."

"Aw, I'm fine, just a stitch in my side, that's all," he replied with a negligent gesture. "Got a bit of a muscle cramp."

Satisfied with the explanation for the younger man's pallor, Jefferson scratched his cheek and thought about what he'd said. "You may have a point," he allowed. "I'll see what the others think of the idea. Imprison them as a threat to the nation? Maybe." Holding out his hand, he thanked them for all their help and, as they shook, he wished them a safe and speedy journey back to their camp.

Minutes later, they were on their way. Blair was so glad to be leaving town that he didn't complain once about having to ride.

* * *

Mindful of Blair's injury, once they were free of the crowded city streets, Jim kept a much slower pace than he would have otherwise. Well aware of his partner's solicitude but not wanting it, Blair nudged his horse into a fast gallop, calling caustically as he passed Jim, "I'm not made of glass! Let's move it."

Rolling his eyes, Jim urged his horse to catch up and they were both soon thundering along the dirt road. When he finally drew alongside, he grabbed Blair's reins to slow him down.

"What?" Blair demanded, irritated, jerking the reins back. "We need to get back! Washington needs to know -"

"Yeah, hero, I know," Jim growled. "Look, you're in pain, dammit, and you lost a fair amount of blood last night. If you fall off your horse and break your stubborn neck, it'll just take that much longer to get back."

Blair tried to maintain his sense of umbrage, but started to snicker. "You said, if I fell off, it wouldn't kill me."

A grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Jim gave a long-suffering nod. "Uh huh, that's what I said. But you're off-balance and could fall wrong and hard - and could very well break some bones if you landed badly. You're in no shape to ride flat out, not today, anyway."

Blair cast a wary look at the ground and shuddered reflexively. "Okay," he allowed grudgingly, "but we don't have to go so slow your Granny would pass us hobbling barefoot."

"My Granny?" Jim snorted, and then laughed at the image. "Tell you what, hot shot, you set the pace that's comfortable for you, and when you need a break, you say so, you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah. You're worse than a hen with her chick," Blair grumbled. "Okay, we'll play, 'Mother, may I', if it makes you happy."

"You're a pain the ass, Sandburg," Jim complained, seriously irritated. "If it was the other way around, you know you'd be giving me grief about pushing too hard." When Blair just turned his face away, Jim goaded, "I'm right, aren't I? And you know it. You don't have to be such a tough guy all the damned time."

Taking a deep breath and wincing at the pull on his side, Blair nodded. Chagrined, he allowed, "Yeah, you're right."

"I'm the Captain. I'm always right," Jim teased him then, and Blair chuckled. "You wish," he murmured sotto voce, knowing Jim would hear him just fine, and nudged his horse forward, setting the pace at a brisk cantor that was better than the original slow walk but more moderate than the punishing pace he'd been pushing for. His grin widened when Jim just laughed.

* * *

Washington's lips thinned as he read the formal response to his letter to Congress. Setting it aside, he looked up at them. "You said you had other matters to report?"

"Yes, sir," Jim replied, and briskly summarized the news about the anonymous donation that was forthcoming. A relieved smile ghosted over the General's face and as quickly vanished as he nodded for Jim to continue. "We uncovered a plot to assassinate you, General," he said soberly. "There's a man in the camp whose been hired by the Loyalists to kill you in the confusion of a battle."

Washington's brow arched and he scratched his cheek, shrugged. "Well, the next time we're in a battle, I'll worry about that. Anything else?"

"We've confirmed the rumours that General Burgoyne will be making an assault on the Hudson in an effort to split the states. What isn't clear yet is whether General Howe will be marching to meet him halfway, or if Howe will attack Philadelphia."

The General's cheeks puffed and he blew a long, slow breath as he looked away to consider the news. His eyes grew distant and he rubbed his mouth, shook his head pensively. "Wait here," he directed them, and then stood to go to lift the flap of the tent. He ordered the sentry outside to bring Generals Greene and Arnold forthwith.

Just as the others were arriving, a courier from the local militia rode swiftly through the camp and slid to the ground outside. "Permission to see the General," he called. He was granted entry and he hastened inside the tent. "Sir," he saluted, and blinked to see all the generals in the confined space. Holding out a message, he went on, "This has just come in from the North."

Curious, Washington took the rolled paper and, opening it, he found a second sheet inside, a printed notice that informed the populace that General Burgoyne had made a treaty with the Iroquois Confederacy, who would take immediate action on his behalf against anyone who supported the rebellion. The note with the poster explained that such announcements had recently been hammered to every other tree and post south of Quebec. Grimly, he passed it around, and dismissed the courier. Glancing at Blair, he reflected, "You warned us, a year ago, that the Indians would have to be reckoned with, but I'd hoped their neutrality would hold." Shaking his head, he ruminated, "The epidemic amongst the Onondaga last winter, and the loss of a number of their Chiefs, have kept them out of the conflict until now, but it seems the respite is over."

Arnold muttered, "Gentleman Johnny's making his move then. He'll already be bragging that he'll be the one to end this war, not Howe."

"Yes, it's what I called you both in to tell you," Washington agreed. "Burgoyne is going to come down the Hudson. Apparently, Howe may march to meet him, if he doesn't go to Philadelphia instead."

"Gates will be hard-pressed to hold him if he makes a determined assault," Greene murmured thoughtfully. Looking up at Washington, he added, "But, we have to hold Howe - if those two armies unite, we won't be able to stop them." Frowning, he shook his head. "I don't see how we can afford to split our forces, to send relief to Gates."

Washington turned to Arnold. "Benedict, you know the land up there, and you've dealt with Burgoyne - snookered Tyconderoga right out from under him more than a year ago. What do you think about this situation?"

"Nathaneal's right, sir," the young brigadier replied. "You'll need all the men you've got and more if Howe makes a determined push, whichever direction he jumps in." His brow furrowed, and he pinched his lip in thought. "Gentleman Johnny is brash, more a juggernaut than a strategist." Gesturing at the poster in Greene's hand, he said, "Like that, for example. Bully tactics. Intimidation. And the British back home won't like it; won't like the idea of enlisting what they think of as 'savages'. He's trying to scare the north into submission, so he won't have to fight all that hard. The man's a dilettante. All flash, not much substance." Rolling his shoulders, as if his energy was too great to be constrained by the uniform, he added, "But there's no question his troops badly outnumber Horatio's - and they're seasoned soldiers, know the land. Been over here for years. Not just arrived last summer like Howe's bunch."

They stood in silence for a long moment, darkly considering the grim situation that was unfolding as their summer challenge. Arnold's gaze flicked toward Jim and Blair, and he went very still, his expression intent as he scrutinized them, and then he turned to Washington. "Sir, I've got an idea. You need my regiment, but you don't need me. Give me two dozen of your best sharpshooters, like these two men here, who helped me drive the British out of Connecticut, and we'll lend a hand to Horatio."

Startled, Jim and Blair stiffened and looked from Arnold to Washington, who was nodding thoughtfully as he considered the request. The General knew full well that Arnold and Gates got along as well as oil and water. Arnold was all fire and action, bold, resolute and impetuous, and the man was lucky - his risks paid off. Gates was conservative, slow to act, a bit too ambitious but steady and, as the senior of the two, he'd keep a rein on Arnold's tendency to act a bit too recklessly. He trusted Gates, but he needed the energy and initiative Arnold would supply if they were to stop Burgoyne's march. Gates knew Burgoyne; they'd trained together as youths in the British military years before. But Arnold had won against the man before. Gates wouldn't be happy, though, to have Arnold foisted on him. "Let me think about it," he finally temporized. "In the meantime," he went on, turning to Jim, "Be thinking about who might be suitable to this assignment if we go ahead with it. You've hunted with these men, fought with them - you probably know as well as anyone who are the best marksmen. If the situation deteriorates in the north, you'll need to move quickly in support of General Arnold."

"Yes, sir," Jim acknowledged smartly; they saluted and left the tent.

* * *

"Yo! Captain Ellison!" a deep, rich voice hailed as Jim and Blair strode away from the General's tent.

Turning at the welcome sound of a voice he hadn't heard in far too long, Jim lifted his hand in greeting, smiling broadly when he saw both old friends jogging towards them. "Hey, when'd you two reprobates get here?"

"Earlier today," Joel told them as they slapped one another's backs and shook hands all round. "After we reported in, the General says that seein' as Howe's already movin', there's no point in us hangin' roun' the city for the summer."

"So we're reporting back for duty," Simon grinned. "Heard you two were enjoyin' the pleasures of Philadelphia."

"Yeah, my kind of town," Jim drawled sarcastically, grimacing as he shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Loud, filthy and way too many people."

Joel was regarding Blair, his eyes narrowing in concern at the lines of strain around the younger man's mouth and eyes. "What happened?" he asked. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," Blair replied with a negligent wave of his hand. "Just a little sore from being in a saddle too long."

Simon's attention had swung to Sandburg at the question, and his joviality faded. "You look like you're hurtin'," he said, frowning, not buying the excuse and observing that the kid seemed to be favouring his left side. "What the hell happened in Philly?"

"Oh, you know, the usual: political intrigue, spies, femmes fatales, matters of national security," Jim drawled. "Fill you in on the details later." Looking around at the men hustling past, some just loitering in the open, beaten down field that served as a parade square of sorts, Jim took Simon's arm, his voice dropping as he said, "Let's take this somewhere a little quieter. You set up quarters yet?" When Simon nodded and waved them to follow toward the campsite he and Joel had set up on the edge of the main encampment, Jim asked with studied innocence that immediately piqued their attention, "So, how would you fancy a trip up the Hudson?"

"Always like to travel," Joel replied laconically. "See the sights; get to know the country better."

Grinning, Jim replied, "Good. 'Cause you might just get to see a lot more of it."

Once they were settled and Simon had poured them mugs of warm ale, Jim filled them in on their upcoming journey, and what they'd learned about Burgoyne's activities and intentions. "So, we need a score of men who can hit what they aim at."

"I was thinking," Blair suggested, "there's that group from the Virginia frontier that showed up together. Every one of them's a damned fine hunter."

"Yeah," Simon agreed. "Morgan and his Rangers. Was talkin' to 'im once an' he said they was always so short of ammunition in the back of the beyond that they had to hit what they'd aimed at, every time."

"There's what? A dozen or so of them?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "So, that leaves eight more slots."

They all put forward ideas of men they'd not only seen handle their weapons well, but men they knew to be solid, not likely to hightail it in the opposite direction when things got rough. After they'd agreed on those they'd choose, Jim and Blair left their gear with the others. Joel promised to scramble up a meal for them all, while they set out to find the men on their informal list and alert them to be ready to travel if the order came for them all to support General Arnold.

When they were on their own again, Jim asked, "You up for this, Chief, if Washington gives the order to go sooner rather than later? Gonna be hard and fast travel."

"Will you stop?" Blair replied, exasperated. "You know as well as I do that it's healing clean. Yeah, so it stings a bit. So what? I'll live."

Jim nodded and they strode a few more paces in silence. Then, jerking his head back the way they'd come, he said quietly, "Philadelphia is your story, Blair. Up to you how much you want to tell them."

"What's a femme fatale, Jim?" he asked as they continued walking across the camp.

"A deadly woman, Chief," he said flatly.

"Oh," he replied and sighed. Raking his hair back, he gave a little shrug. "Well, then, I guess you already gave them the gist of it," he said, looking into the distance. "Not much else to tell." He hesitated and then elaborated, "Not sure there's any point in talking about the, uh, synagogue and all that." When Jim didn't say anything, he went on, "It's not that I don't trust them, you know that. It's just ... there's no point. And, about the other stuff, well, it's safer - for them - not to know all the details."

"They'll be curious about how you got hurt," Jim told him. "They already are."

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "Guess there's no harm in saying we had a run-in with a wannabe traitor and I got burned by a bullet before we got things under control."

"No harm at all," Jim agreed.

"And for sure we have to tell them about the plot to assassinate Washington - we all have to keep our eyes open," Blair added.

"Gonna be hard to do if we're all the hell the way up the Hudson, isn't it?" Jim retorted with a grimace, not particularly happy about the General maybe sending them away when they knew there was a threat in the camp.

"Well, if it turns out we have to go, guess we'll just have to send Gentleman Johnny on his way and get back here on the double," he replied matter-of-factly, as if it would be as easy as that.

Bemused by the confident assumption of victory in the persistent face of defeat, Jim chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, Sandburg, I guess we'll have to do just that."

* * *

June dragged on and they wondered what the British were up to, what Howe was waiting for as he dawdled the weeks away in New Jersey, holed up around New Brunswick with nearly eight thousand British and Hessian soldiers at his beck and call. However, the influx of cash cheered the men and desertions dropped so, at least for the time being, the Continental Army contingent under Washington's direct command once again numbered nearly ten thousand. However, with his men undertrained and ill-equipped, Washington did not feel the numerical advantage was enough to engage in an aggressive attack upon Howe's forces.

One day, on his way past the command tent, Jim inadvertently overheard Washington telling Greene that he'd had a letter from Benjamin Franklin. The General sounded discouraged about the fact that the French still hadn't committed; the French wouldn't take on the British unless and until the Americans showed they were useful allies and not simply needy supplicants. However, Jim didn't need enhanced hearing to know that, every chance he got, Arnold argued ever more stridently that they needed to take the war to the British, not hide in the hills and nip at their heels. Washington remained patient with him, but Ellison wondered if the persistent nagging and petulance wore thin after a while. Jim thought if the man reported to him and had so much damned energy, he'd have him out digging trenches and building fortifications until he dropped. Still, he sympathized with the cocky general's irritation. Nobody was ever going to win a war by sitting on their asses and waiting for something to happen.

Day after day, the men did drills, but haphazardly, with no real purpose or goal and no one to show them how to do better. They were all amateurs in the game of war, pitting themselves against the elite of the world's professionals. And so they drank heavily, to fill themselves with false confidence and the strength of bravado as they told one another stories about what they'd do when they had the redcoats in their sights.

Jim, Blair, Simon and Joel all kept an eye out for who might be a little more flush with cash than the others, but the payment of monies owed to the soldiers for months of back pay muddied the waters. Everyone seemed to have more than enough to spend on drink and on the favours of the camp followers.

All in all, being in camp, waiting for something to happen was tedious, grindingly boring. They were all glad when scouting duties, largely to keep an eye on Howe, took them into the countryside, to some peace and quiet and clean air that didn't stink of unwashed men and the filth of the latrine pits.

For weeks, nothing much happened but, finally, the third week of June, they once again inched as close as they could to New Brunswick, so that Jim could get a handle on the rumble of innumerable conversations going on constantly on the streets and in the buildings. As the forest thinned, they crouched low behind scrubby bushes and boulders, and then slithered forward through tall grass to hunch behind wild brush. Blair kept a hand on Jim's lower back or shoulder, grounding him as he struggled to make sense of the cacophony of sound in his ears. Finally, finally, after extending his hearing to the utmost, concentrating until his head ached from the effort of sifting through the clamor of the town to find something useful, he heard officers talking about Howe's intention to march to Amboy to join with Cornwallis' force of eight thousand men. "Got it," he gusted, sagging back and rubbing his ears. "They're getting ready to move out. We've got to alert the General."

"Good job, Jim," Blair praised him, that glow of wonder in his eyes that seemed reserved only for Jim. "You just keep on amazing me, you know that?"

* * *

Upon hearing the news, Washington wasted no time in deploying Generals Maxwell and Sullivan to harass the British flanks. But, the next morning, Washington changed his mind and his orders, sending Greene's three regiments to charge the British rear position, intending to box them in. But, it was a disastrous engagement. Maxwell never did get his new orders and Sullivan received his too late to move forward from his position along the line of presumed British retreat. Greene barely got close enough to be a nuisance as the British marched to Amboy, and had to fall back when no reinforcement arrived from his colleagues.

Irritated by the Americans, the British burned houses all along the route as they completed their journey to Amboy.

But Washington did not retreat back to the hills; instead, he gave orders to break camp and follow the British, intending to continue his strategy of harassing their rear guard. But, five days later, Howe contrived to attempt to entrap the Americans, using the same ploy he had on Long Island of sending a large flanking force with the intention of boxing the ten thousand Americans between sixteen thousand superior warriors. Fortunately, Lord Stirling - the same man who'd held the British back long enough on Long Island to allow the main force of the Continental Army to retreat to the Heights - reprised his role as the intrepid and determined wall they'd first have to pass to get to Washington. For hours, Stirling and his division fought with spirit and courage, giving the General time enough to pull his main force back into the hills and well out of the Lion's jaws.

Disgusted, Howe gave up the pursuit. He had other fish to fry, and ordered his forces back to Staten Island.

Watching the massive retreat from their lookout point in the hills, Jim shook his head. "He's going back to New York. To his brother and the armada."

Blair gnawed on his lip. "But to sail where? North, up the Hudson, or south, to the Delaware, to get to Philadelphia?"

"That's the question, Chief," Jim sighed. "If the General guesses the wrong answer, then ... well, we'll have to wait and see what happens next, I guess."

* * *

Word reached General Washington that Fort Tyconderoga - the largest, most elaborate fortress in the New World - fell to General Burgoyne the first week of July, and that several other British victories in the north made it clear that Gentleman Johnny was making his move. He was coming down the Hudson. But ... Washington had no idea where Howe was. He'd sailed out of New York harbor and had taken the massive armada with him. The sails slipped over the horizon and disappeared into the Atlantic without giving any indication of their ultimate direction. Watchers were stationed up and down the coastline, seeking a sign to indicate whether Howe was sailing to support Burgoyne, or had plans to invade Philadelphia but, so far, the ships remained far out of sight.

General Arnold was beside himself with frustration at the indecision and lack of any meaningful activity. His urgings to be allowed to go to Gates' aid became relentless and, finally, tired of the constant haranguing, Washington gave him leave to go, and take the sharpshooters with him.

* * *

General Arnold rode, but the rest of them - Jim and his three subordinates, Morgan and his rangers and a handful of other men, including the obnoxious Quinn who was, unfortunately, a superlative shot, too good to be left behind - hoofed it cross-country to the banks of the Hudson River, far enough north of Manhattan to evade any British presence. Once they reached the broad waterway, they hustled north along its shoreline to the nearest village and wharf. There, General Arnold commandeered a sloop and they clattered onboard. The sturdy vessel, designed by the Dutch settlers in the area, sported broad sails to catch the wind and carry it against the current at good speed.

Wide-eyed and unable to completely mask his delight despite the sober reasons for their voyage, Blair hurried to a place on the rail, to watch the river and the passing shore. Jim dumped his pack to the deck beside his partner and settled beside him. Simon and Joel fetched up nearby, and the others ranged themselves around the rest of the top deck. Arnold's horse shied a bit when the sloop dipped and rolled under its weight, but the General soothed the animal with low croons and looped sturdy ropes around its neck that attached to hooks in the decking, to keep it from rearing and plunging if the craft hit rough water.

Blair flashed eyes filled with excitement at Jim, who once again found himself thinking that the kid looked scarcely more than fifteen, despite the fact that he was some years older. His enthusiasm for new experiences seemed boundless, his curiosity insatiable. "You look awfully happy to be heading toward a major fight, Chief," he observed fondly.

"I've never been on a sailboat," Sandburg replied with a grin. "A canoe, sure, rowboats, that barge when we left Long Island, even a big longboat but this, _this_ is something completely different." His gaze flashed to the rigging and the sails that were being unfurled, and his mouth dropped open in awe at the massive spread of canvas fluttering above his head. The boom shifted and they all had to duck as it came around and wind filled the sails with a loud snap of canvas that flapped and then billowed tightly and the sturdy craft lunged forward. "This is great," he sighed happily, and then again turned to watch the shore recede as the sloop moved swiftly into the centre of the river. "Sure beats walking for days and days."

"Or going horseback," Jim added wryly.

"Yeah, that, too," Blair laughed in agreement.

While Blair watched the passing view as the day sped past, sometimes of farms, occasionally of small fishing villages, increasingly of dense forest upon the steep slopes of the Adirondacks that soon loomed around them, Jim watched the waters behind them, half expecting the British Armada to hove into sight. But, as the hours passed, all he saw were fishing boats and barges, rafts and other sloops like their own plying up and down the waterway.

When dusk fell, the four of them shared cold meat, hard bread, cheese and apples, and then arranged their bedrolls on the decking. At full dark, the sloop anchored for the night. Lying on the deck, looking up at the stars dimpling the night sky, Blair murmured wistfully, "I wish I could see what you see."

"The sky's not all that different from what you see; it's all so far away," Jim replied softly, reaching out to pat his shoulder consolingly. Blair didn't often express envy of his greater acuity of sensory perception, but he knew the kid often wished he could share the experience. Somehow, Blair had never gotten to the point of taking his senses for granted, never got past being in awe of them. And Jim knew that it was because of Blair that he seldom saw them as curses anymore, but had discovered a kind of joy in them. "Brighter, I guess. More stars. But not a lot different."

Blair smiled a little and nodded. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the current, they soon slipped into sleep.

* * *

They disembarked late on the morning of their third day on the vessel, some distance south of Saratoga, and strode, more than marched, through the forest to Gates' nearby camp. Jim, walking to one side behind General Arnold, was the only one of their group who could have seen General Horatio Gates' reaction when he realized who was approaching the encampment. At first, Gates gaped, and then an expression of mingled disgust and anger swept across his long, narrow, aristocratic features, and his posture stiffened in resistance and resentment.

Rolling his eyes, Jim sighed. Not a propitious welcome.

When they drew closer, Gates and Arnold exchanged greetings that were painfully civil, brittle in tone and manner. "What brings you here?" Gates demanded abruptly as soon as the official pleasantries were concluded. Looking past Arnold, he cast a disparaging glance at the two dozen hard men who fell in behind Arnold.

"General Washington thought I might lend a hand," Arnold replied, affecting a nonchalance that sounded forced.

"Two dozen more men will scarcely do much to hold the line against Burgoyne."

"We'll see about that," Arnold contested, and then gave a rough laugh. "For want of a nail, after all," he added, quoting the old nursing rhyme. Gates didn't look impressed.

For the next several days, the generals attempted to hide their mutual antipathy from the ranks, and only Jim could hear the increasingly heated discussions about strategy and tactics over their nightly dinners together. Arnold wanted to take the battle to Burgoyne, insisting he be allowed to take a contingent and march north and reinforce their forts below Quebec. Gates thought he was crazy, arguing that to split their forces, which were already badly outnumbered by the British, would be criminally negligent and lead to certain defeat. Uncomfortable with what he considered eavesdropping, but unable to not hear what others couldn't, Jim kept the conflict between their leaders to himself, not even confiding it to Blair.

But when Arnold continued to press his views, growing ever more insistent, anyone that was in proximity of the command headquarters that incorporated Gates' private domain could hear the escalating argument. Getting nowhere, cursing to himself late one evening as he stomped out of the building to return to the modest shanty he'd appropriated for his own use, Arnold spotted Jim and waved him over.

"Tell the men to prepare to move out in the morning," he directed abruptly. "I'm sending them north under Major Morgan's command, with you as his second, to reinforce Fort Schuyler and Fort Stanwix - God knows, we're doing no good sitting around here waiting for the British to come to us. I'm betting that Burgoyne has a force heading their way, to ensure he'd got no one behind him as he continues down the Hudson. I saw longboats on the riverbank - take one of them as far as you can, to save time."

"Yes, sir," Jim acknowledged. "You're remaining here, sir?"

Nodding, Arnold cast a dyspeptic glance back at Gates' quarters. "General Gates and I have more to talk about," he said darkly. Turning back to Jim, he laid a hand on his shoulder and drew him further away from the building. "We can't afford to lose those installations. Don't be constrained to fight the British the way they choose. Do whatever is necessary to hold the ground and drive them off, and then hightail it back here."

Nodding that he understood, Jim saluted and moved off to alert Morgan and the others.

* * *

Very aware that they were moving deeper into what could be enemy territory, especially given that at least some of the Iroquois nations were said to be mobilizing in support of the British, they cautiously paddled up the river. Even Quinn, the inveterate complainer who was always mumbling in disgruntlement with the rations or the mosquitoes or the damned heat or whatever, lapsed into uneasy silence. At night, they eschewed campfires, eating hard tack and jerky, berries when they were near to hand.

When they encountered fishermen on the river, they sought as much information as they could get, though most were reticent to talk with them, afraid of British reprisals. Everyone seemed to be constantly looking over their shoulders at the shadows of the surrounding forests, clearly wondering if they were being watched by Indians. Jim found he picked up more by stretching his hearing and listening in on the gossip and speculation of others on the river, who were more open when they thought they were out of earshot.

Gradually, as the men talked together in the evenings, keeping their voices low, the pieces of the complex puzzle of relationships and alliances in the north became clearer.

"I've heard," Jim said one night, as if he was opening a general conversation rather than reporting on what he'd overheard that day from two fishermen talking on the bank, "that the Iroquois Confederacy is split over this war. That they're reluctant allies of the British, at best."

Morgan looked at him, his gaze assessing, his manner suggesting that he'd begun to wonder just where and how Captain Ellison 'heard' all that he did. But he let it go and simply added what he knew or guessed. "Yeah, makes sense. There was a big epidemic in the heart of Iroquois country last winter - killed off several of their big chiefs. Mostly, the Indians, at least the ones where we come from, want no part of 'whiteman's wars' - figure that there's no point getting themselves killed on our behalf, and one white man in charge of things is pretty much the same as another, the way they see it. But ... if the Chiefs that're left can't keep a rein on the hotheads, and if the British are threatening reprisals if they don't help, then some'll resent the British and fight 'em just to spite 'em, an' others'll fall into line."

"How do we know who's friend and who's foe?" Joel wondered with a frown.

"Ain't no Injun that's a good Injun," Quinn asserted with a sneering glance at Sandburg, and then he hawked and spit.

Blair's lips thinned but he didn't bother reacting to the obvious insult. "We can't afford to attack any who might be on our side," he asserted, ignoring Quinn's derisive snort. "We need all the allies we can get."

"So ... you're saying, we go carefully and only shoot back if we're attacked," Jim interpreted.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"Makes good sense to me," Morgan agreed sardonically. "Problem is, most of us might be dead before we even see these suckers. Move like shadows, they do; silent as the night. But ... if we can't see 'em, we can't fight 'em. An arrow in the back'll let us know if we're in trouble quick enough."

Blair gave Jim a sideways glance. "Guess we'll just have to listen hard and pay attention to moving shadows," he said quietly.

Jim cut him a quick look, but only nodded. And then he heard something, a long way away. Miles away. He frowned and turned his head, tried to catch the high pitched yips, a screaming wail, then shots ....

"What is it, Jim?" Blair asked, lightly gripping his arm as he leaned close.

He blinked and shook his head. Whatever it was, it was over. "Something bad, I think. Something north of us." He looked past Blair and saw Morgan staring at him, a frown puckering his brow. The Major's lips thinned, and he turned away.

* * *

The mood on the river was different the next day. There were angry shouts and a buzz of conversation in the village up ahead. Jim signaled that they were turning into the bank, and a few minutes later, they heard the news from a furious group of fisherman.

"Killed her, the savages!"

"God-damned British! It's their fault!"

"What? Slow down! What's happened?" Jim commanded fiercely, his ice cold voice cutting through the heated shouts and silencing the men around them.

"Indians. Kidnapped a girl - Jenny McCrae, her name was - and she was goin' up to Fort Edwards, to be with her fiancé. She was a Tory, one of the Loyalists, dammit. And those heathen Indians took her anyway. Killed her. Took her scalp," a whippet-thin man in faded dungarees told them bitterly. "God-damned Brits," he swore again, nearly inarticulate with fury.

"That's it," another called out. "I'm done putting up with it. Time the militia showed 'em they can't push us around no more! Whose with me?!"

A ragged shouted cheer greeted his words ... and Jim and Morgan found themselves with a bunch of volunteers only too eager to hunt redcoats.

After that, all along the river, more and more men joined them, grabbing their weapons and shoving canoes into the water behind them. Two days later, they left the river and began traveling overland, northeast toward Fort Stanwix.

The land was rough, filled with steep terrain and bogs in the low-lying areas. Though they moved steadily, Jim felt as if it took forever to cover a mile as the crow flies. But from the map they'd copied while at Gates' camp, they all knew they were nearing the Fort three days later when he stiffened, and tilted his head. Blair laid a hand on his back, murmuring to him so low none of the others could hear what he was saying.

Jim heard whispers, muffled sounds of men moving stealthily, not far away - just a couple miles, if that, past the nearby Oriskany Creek. He strained and caught British accents. Holding up a hand, he shook his head. There was something else - further away, from the southeast, but oddly louder. Many men tramping through the forest, coming toward them but angling slightly north, toward the Fort. American accents.

"Ambush!" he growled to Blair. "Up ahead, no more than two miles away. Waiting for ... can't be sure. Lots of Americans." Louder, he called to the others, "C'mon! This way!"

Some of the men looked at him uneasily. The rivermen had grown increasingly aware that he was different, and all had heard rumours that he could see far better and hear far more than any ordinary man. But the range of acuity of his skills unnerved those who were superstitious. Morgan simply nodded briskly and added his own sharp orders to hasten the troop on its way.

They heard a volley of shots before they got there, and that fired them, so they plunged forward through the thick underbrush, heedless of thorns catching at them, lunging around trees in their way. And they ran headlong into a bloody, hand to hand battle of hundreds of British soldiers, militiamen - and Indians, who seemed to be fighting one another, so they'd no idea which of the natives were on their side. There was no room to get clear, clean shots. Muskets were hastily slung over shoulders and hunting knives were drawn. Those with bayonets on the end of their rifles used them, swinging and slashing, stabbing. Battle cries filled their throats as they plunged into the fray.

The leaf-strewn earth ran slick and red with blood. Grunts and screams, shouted orders and furious resistance filled the air. Blair had his war club in one hand and his blade in the other, and Jim used his bayonet. Back to back, they cut a swath through the British, Simon and Joel close behind and to one side, slugging, hacking, stabbing. Morgan and his men, and the militiamen who'd joined them en route, waded into battle until they all formed a formidable line, catching the British between them and the Americans who had been ambushed, but had rallied rather than run, and were fighting back tooth and nail.

The bloodbath raged for two hours before the British pulled back and away, leaving the Americans gasping for breath. Gradually, Jim and Morgan learned that their fellow Americans were eight hundred militiamen from the Mohawk Valley of upper New York and sixty Oneida warriors, led by Brigadier General Nicholas Herkimer. The Brigadier had received a severe leg wound early in the conflict and yet had coolly directed his men from where he slumped against an oak tree. The thousand or so British and Mohawk warriors they had driven off were part of a larger contingent who were apparently laying siege to Fort Stanwix. Two hundred and fifty of the Americans suffered wounds or were killed in the engagement, and they had to believe a similar number of the British had gone down, else they'd not have retreated so smartly.

Herkimer and the wounded needed attention as soon as possible. Blair did what he could, along with others who took on informal medic roles of binding wounds, but there were too many injured, and some wounds were too serious for his skills. After doing his best to stem the blood flowing from Herkimer's wound, he turned to Jim and said quietly, "His leg was shattered by a musket ball and I doubt it can be saved." He swallowed and, looking back at the valiant man, added sorrowfully, "I don't think he's going to make it."

Dusk fell by the time they got everything organized and a contingent of the upper New York men headed home with their wounded and dead. The rest had no choice but to set up camp for the night, and hope Fort Stanwix could hold out a little longer.

The next day, they set out at double time with the Mohawk Valley men and Indians, more familiar with the territory, taking the lead. Somehow, the British must have learned they were coming, no doubt from those who had fled the battle the day before. The patriots came out of the forest around Fort Stanwix just as the last of the redcoats who had been laying siege were disappearing to the north, scurrying back to Quebec.

Fort Stanwix had not fallen and was now secure.

But there were other vulnerable targets in Burgoyne's path. Turning around, they marched back toward the Hudson River to the south and west of their position. Two days later, they encountered fifteen hundred militiamen from New Hampshire under the command of Colonel Stark, who had crossed the boundary lines into New York. He had information that there was a large contingent of Hessians nearby, marching toward Bennington to acquire supplies from the depot there for Burgoyne. The two groups of patriots banded together.

Stark divided his now larger force, sending some around to attack the Germans from the rear. The two wings quickly surrounded the Hessians, and the Loyalists and Indians with them panicked and ran. The Germans fought stolidly, trying to break through the American lines, and the battle raged fiercely for two hours before the Americans triumphed.

They'd barely caught their breath, however, before Jim heard the approach of another large contingent, and he hastily warned Stark to prepare for attack. Five hundred more British attacked and the battle turned into another bloody confrontation. Back and forth, neither side gaining much ground, they fought for hours, and the patriots were flagging, exhausted from the earlier brutal fight. But, just as it seemed as if they must fall back, five hundred Vermont volunteers charged with piercing battle cries into the foray. The British were overwhelmed and some broke away, but the rest were trapped. When the second battle finally ended, of the thousand British warriors, only a hundred had escaped; there were over six hundred enemy dead, and most of the captives were wounded. One of them told his patriot captors what his commander, Raum, had said about the patriots before he died in the battle: 'They fought more like hellhounds than soldiers.' From another they learned that the British they'd driven back north from Fort Stanwix had been key to Burgoyne's assault, the second of three waves, the third being Howe, who was expected from the south.

But for now, it appeared as if Burgoyne was on his own ... and was faltering. Apparently, his supply lines back to Canada had stretched too thin, which is why he'd sent Raum's force to secure more supplies. And the Americans retreating from Fort Edwards had cut down trees, fired farms and driven off cattle, to slow his advance even further. The patriots snickered appreciatively when they heard that it had taken the British General twenty-three days to traverse as many miles.

However, the Americans sent by Arnold to assist in the north didn't come through the battle unscathed. They all numbered amongst the nearly three hundred wounded. Simon and Joel both had bloody, if shallow wounds on their arms and legs, Morgan had lost a man, and three others had suffered flesh wounds. Blair was bleeding from a nasty cut to his scalp, but he just kept swiping the blood out of his eyes as he concentrated on stemming the flow of crimson from the saber thrust Jim had taken in his left shoulder.

"How bad is it?" Simon demanded roughly, as he and Joel helped bind one another's wounds after liberally lacing them with herbs from a leather pouch Blair thrust at them.

"Looks clean; damned lucky it wasn't lower," Sandburg grated hoarsely as he kept pressure on the wound and then he muttered urgently to Jim, who was clenched tight with the agony of it, "Turn it down, dammit. _Now_. Turn it down."

His face starkly pale, eyes pressed tightly closed, gasping for breath, Jim nodded jerkily. Grimacing with effort, he concentrated for what seemed like endless minutes but could only have been seconds. Finally, his breathing eased and he blinked. "Okay," he rasped. "S'okay now."

"Good," Blair replied and swiped another runnel of blood away from his eyes. "'Cause I'm gonna have to hurt you, man. The bleeding isn't stopping; I have to cauterize the wound."

Jim looked up at him balefully and swallowed hard. Closing his eyes, resignedly he said, "Do it."

Joel drew flint from a pouch at his waist, and hastily got a small fire going nearby. Simon took the knife Sandburg held out to him. "Clean it," Blair directed, curling his lip at the blood on the blade. "And then stick it in the flames."

"How's ... how's your head?" Jim panted, wincing and squinting up at his friend.

"Other than the fact I see two of you, not too bad," Blair told him with a ragged grin.

Jim snorted and then huffed, "Just put the knife in the real wound, okay, Corporal?"

Lightly stroking his hand over Jim's brow, Blair murmured fondly, "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Laughter at their old joke creased Jim's face, but the pain caught him again and he clenched his jaw as he fought off a moan.

"Easy, Jim," Blair soothed, glancing at the knife and noting it was turning red. "Easy." When he decided the blade was hot enough, he signaled to Simon to bring it back to him. Before he took it though, he grabbed a small thick twig from the ground beside him and said, "Bite on this, Jim. And, and, turn the scope down as far as you can. This is really going to hurt bad, but I'll be as quick as I can."

Jim obligingly opened his mouth and then clamped down on the wood fragment. He closed his eyes briefly, and then nodded. Simon handed the blazing hot blade to Blair. Grasping it firmly, he gestured to Simon to hold Jim's shoulders down. And then, when Simon had knelt by Jim's head and had leaned his weight on Ellison, Blair took a deep breath, bit his lip and then swiftly lifted the pad of rags he'd been holding over the wound, and slid the hot knife into the wound.

Jim grunted a low, wild howl and tried to arch away from the pain, but Simon held him securely. His face contorted and flushed with the effort to control and contain the agony, and then he went limp as he passed out. The sickening stench of burning flesh nauseated all of them.

Hot tears warred with the warm blood dripping down his brow and into his eyes, but Blair blinked furiously to clear his vision and counted under his breath in Cherokee. And then he pulled the blade away and drove it violently into the ground. Panting, he watched the wound, relaxing only when he was sure the bleeding had stopped. Rifling in his pack, he drew out a small clay pot of ointment, and he carefully, tenderly, coated the burned flesh and the wound. And then he bound a thick wad of clean rags over the injury with a long strip of linen that Simon helped him wind around Jim's shoulder and chest.

"He gonna be okay?" Joel asked soberly.

"Yeah, yeah, I think so," Blair replied faintly, sounding woozy now that the adrenaline that had been driving him wore off. "Probably ache like hell in cold weather for the rest of his life, but he should be ... should be ... f-fi -" His voice broke and he abruptly jerked around, gagging and retching but there was nothing inside to give up. "Oh, man," he moaned and lifted his hands to his head, swayed sideways ... and sagged, sprawling on his side, unconscious before he hit the ground.

"Sonuva ..." Simon exclaimed, as he scrambled to help Joel turn the kid onto his back. Using water from Joel's canteen and another rag from Blair's pack, they cleaned the blood away and found a bone-deep gash on his brow, near the hairline close to his temple.

"Nasty. Damned near got scalped," Joel commented hoarsely, and then dug out the gut and a needle he knew Blair kept in a leather pouch in his pack. "Good thing he's out of it. This'd sting." Swiftly, he stitched the ragged edges of skin together, and powdered the wound with more of Sandburg's magic herbs. "Nasty bump coming up," he muttered, and then, while Simon held Blair's head off the ground, he wound a bandage around the kid's skull. Looking up at Simon, he said, "Looks like you and me get to play nursemaids for a few days."

"Lord help us," Simon rumbled. "I doubt these two are good company when they can't do for themselves." Shaking his head, he added, "Sandburg's gonna have one godawful headache when he wakes up."

"We just better hope he wakes up before Jim does," Joel sighed with a glance at Ellison. "Or there'll be hell to pay." Simon barked a laugh and nodded. They both knew that their Captain would be a bear until he was assured that Blair wasn't badly hurt. But, gazing down at the kid, he sobered as he soaked a rag to wash the blood-matted hair and then gently smoothed the damp curls from the bandaged brow. God, he hoped the kid's collapse was mostly due to exhaustion and shock, and not something more serious.

Head injuries could be tricky.

* * *

Jim moaned softly as he eased back into consciousness. There was a fire in his shoulder that was burning relentlessly, mercilessly and he had a vague idea of pouring water over it. Confused, unable to think past the agony, he floated helplessly but then he latched onto the heartbeat that was always there, and the heartbeat reminded him he could diminish his experience of the pain. There was something about the heartbeat that bothered him, something not quite right, but he couldn't figure out what until he could focus better - and he couldn't think about anything until he got the pain under control. So he struggled with the damned spyglass in his head, imagining the pain skimming farther and farther away, so he could scarcely make it out in the distance and he gulped in air with the relief of being able to breathe easily again. What the hell had happened? Oh, yeah, the ferocious, exhausting battles, one right after the other. Scraping his face and rubbing his eyes with his good hand, he blinked and looked around, expecting to see Blair hovering over him - but he saw Joel, and frowned. The heartbeat. There was something ... it was slow. Slower than he'd ever heard it before, even when Blair was deeply asleep.

"Where's Sandburg?" he rasped, struggling to push himself up, made awkward by his useless left arm. The agony in his shoulder flared and he subsided with a frustrated growl.

"He's right here," Joel assured him, waving toward Blair who was stretched out a few feet away, with Simon squatting next to him. "He's, uh, he's catching some shuteye."

His gaze narrowing, he studied Joel, and his gaze flicked to Simon and then to Blair's still form. Their heartbeats were racing, as if they were running flat out - they were worried and they were flat-out lying to him - and the kid's was slow. Too slow. Fear erupted in his gut and he surged up to his knees, heedless of the shrieking, searing, furious burn in his shoulder. "Bullshit," he snarled. "What's wrong with him? What happened?"

Grimacing, Joel looked at Simon and held up his hands. "Can't hide nothin' from this guy. Don't know why I even try."

"He passed out after he'd seen to you," Simon told him evenly, trying to instill calm. "He's got a bad lump on his head. Needed some stitches. But he's probably fine."

"How long's he been out?" he demanded, swaying dizzily as he pushed himself to his feet. Joel hastened to support him as he shuffled the two steps that separated him from Sandburg, and then helped him ease down beside his partner.

"Not long," Joel assured him. "Just a few minutes."

Scowling heavily, gritting his teeth against the keening wound in his shoulder, Jim studied Blair, assessing his respirations \- too slow, but even, his scent - the residual odours of anxious fear and anger, blood and sweat, so soon after the battles nearly knocked him over. Shaking his head, taking deep open-mouthed breaths to steady himself, he reached out with his good arm to touch Blair's face, finding it cooler than the skin usually was, and the kid was as white as a ghost. Shuddering at the unpleasant comparison, he explored further, his touch delicate over the dressing, feeling the heat of the wound and the bruising of the skin, the shape of the lump. Feeling helpless, he cupped Blair's cheek. "He's not just sleeping," he rasped hoarsely.

"Now, come on, Jim, take it easy," Simon urged, his tone low and reassuring. "You know as well as I do that anyone's going to pass out after a blow like that. Doesn't have to be bad news. Just natural - let's the body, er, the head heal without the distraction of thinking and such."

Jim's lips and jaw tightened, but he nodded. He'd been knocked out himself a time or two. He'd always woken up. "We need to keep him warm," he grated. "He hates to be cold."

Quickly, Joel untied the rolled blanket on Blair's pack, and draped it over him. And then he dug out one of Jim's spare shirts from his pack, and fashioned it into a sling. When Jim resisted his fussing, he sternly rebuked, "Blair worked hard to fix up that shoulder and get it to stop bleeding. You want to ruin it, overstrain it now? He'll give you proper what-for when he wakes up if you mess around and don't take care of it."

Grudgingly, Jim stopped resisting the attention. But ... but he wondered if they had any idea how hard it was for him to see Blair like this, so ... so still, so hurt, and not be able to do a damned thing about it. How it tore at something inside, something he didn't understand and hadn't even really grasped was there until Philadelphia. Until that pistol had blasted - loud, deafening - in their small room and Blair had been flung back and, in that frozen moment, his hearing too fractured by the explosive shot to be able to think or hear anything, let alone the soft, steady cadence of Blair's heartbeat, he'd thought ... he'd thought Blair had been killed. Just like that. Extinguished. Gone.

He'd lost it.

He'd rampaged across the floor like a mindless, raging predator and if that bitch hadn't already been dead, he would have annihilated her with his bare hands.

His rage, his all-consuming instinctive horror and fury, had shocked him, but it was nothing beside his fear that she'd killed Sandburg. Scared, he'd been shaking when he'd gone to Blair, and knelt by his side. But the kid was already moving, trying to get up, and he was able to release the breath he hadn't known he was holding and breathe again. When he realized that his friend was okay, really just grazed, he'd nearly been undone by relief. His throat had tightened and his eyes had burned with hot tears. He still shook when he remembered those moments.

Later, when he'd gone out and left Blair to rest, he'd walked for miles, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, lost inside himself, trying to come to grips with the magnitude of his reaction and emotions. He'd known they were friends, good friends. Blair had become his best friend, someone he knew he both wanted and needed in his life. And, sure, Blair had helped him enormously with his senses, still did, helping him to make them work so that now he rarely had to think about them most of the time. But ... he hadn't believed that he'd ever care so much about another person that the loss of them would shatter his world. Hadn't known he'd felt that way about Blair until that shot had gone off. That he could kill in a blazing fury of grief that knew no bounds.

He'd been frightened by his reactions, and had wanted to deny them, but he couldn't. This was a friendship the like he'd never known, and hadn't even heard of outside the nursery and fairytales. Hadn't believed could be real. Somehow, he'd become bound to Blair and now the man was essential to him, as essential as air or food or water. He'd become angry then, hating the idea of being tied to another so ... so intrinsically. Loathed the feeling of dependency those feelings aroused. How the hell had Blair done it? Woven some kind of spell around him? Used some of that Indian magic? By what right, had Blair taken possession of him -

But his thoughts and roiling emotions had hit a wall and he'd felt sick and he'd begun to shake so badly that he hadn't been able to stand and had dropped to his knees, and then he'd shifted to sit with his face in his hands. Trembling, trembling so badly and the tears, the tears ... he couldn't stop them from leaking from his eyes. Like a child, he shook with sobs he stifled as best he could.

How had Blair done it? No, not by magic. Not through any kind of spell. Just ... just by being the only person in his life who ... who accepted him and ... and loved him just as he was. Who held him in high esteem and always had, no questions asked. Who forgave him his surliness on bad days and laughed kindly at his foibles. He hadn't realized how much he'd needed that kind of love in his life; hadn't even imagined such unconditional acceptance and affection existed. Blair not only understood his senses, but reveled in them, thought they were fantastic and thought Jim was amazing that he could handle them so well, had survived so long on his own with no help or understanding of what was happening to him. And what Blair offered had no strings attached. He simply gave a kind of unconditional acceptance, even approval, and he committed to be there, to always be there. In those dark moments, Jim had remembered that Blair believed they belonged together and would search him out through lives as yet unlived, to find him, to be there for him, to watch over him and help him however Blair could. That kind of devotion and loyalty were breathtaking, too much to really grasp.

But Blair was no slave, no doormat - he stood up for himself and held his own on the oft times they argued. He saw things in completely different ways and made no bones about sharing his views, his beliefs. He was this amazing person who took all life threw at him, all the hurt and misery, the uncertainties and what must often have been the hopelessness, and learned from it all, not only surviving but coming out whole, more than whole, with lots of himself to share. Blair ... Blair gave himself as a gift, had given Jim his love and his support and his compassion and his humour and his courage just as - or even more - freely than others gave a token at Christmas. And all of that had soaked into the soul that Jim wasn't even sure he had. Had imbued him with a sense of peace that, no matter what ever happened, it would all be alright. That they could face whatever came at them together and, regardless of the challenges and hazards, they'd be okay.

Only ... that was crazy. Nobody could live so entwined with another; needing that other so much. Blair was young. He might want to marry someday, have a family. And he dreamed of traveling the world, seeing all the wonders just past the horizon. Hell, even if they weren't at war, people had accidents, got sick ... died.

And he'd just come face to face with that possibility, hadn't he? Had just had their mortality, Blair's mortality, smacked in his face. And it had shaken him; shaken him badly. What the hell was he going to do?

Every day during this damned war, since the day they'd first met, they'd been concerned about protecting other people - the army from attack, the citizens from the predations of the enemy, the future and all the people who would come after them, to secure the freedom of as yet unborn generations. And while they'd been doing so, Blair had quietly, capably, been taking care of him, whether it was anticipating his need for help with his senses or curing skins to keep him warm in the winter. In all that time, what had he done to take care of Blair? When had he ever put his partner first in anything?

A sense of protectiveness for Blair had swept over him then, so hard and fast, so complete that it left him gasping. And he'd vowed that things were going to change. From that moment on, he promised himself that he'd do all in his power to keep Blair as safe as he could, to watch over him with equal diligence and care. But even as he made the vow, he was pathetically aware of the irony and hopelessness of such a commitment.

They were at war.

There were no guarantees.

He'd learned that in spades in the last chaotic hours; he'd lost track of his partner as they'd fought for their lives and for freedom. And now Blair was lying here, so still, so hurt ... and it scalded him that Blair had managed to hang on long enough to meet his needs before succumbing to his own injury, and he'd not even realized how badly hurt Blair was himself. God damn it, he'd thought the kid was kidding when he said he was seeing double.

Jim scrubbed his face. There was no way that Simon or Joel, or anyone for that matter, could fully understand all that Blair meant to him; he scarcely understood it himself. All he knew was that he could not contemplate life without Blair there, beside him, giving all those gifts he gave with such a generous spirit. Jim sniffed and swiped at his eyes. Took a shuddering breath to pull himself together. He couldn't do much for the kid if he was sniveling like a child frightened by the bogeyman. He hadn't saved him from injury, and there wasn't much he could do to help him now, but he could keep him safe, watch over him and .... It wasn't enough. But it was all that was left to him to do.

Gently, he reached out to tuck the blanket around Blair's shoulders, and he tenderly stroked his friend's head. Looking around, feeling dazed, he tilted his head toward the trunk of a sturdy oak nearby. "Help me over there," he asked, sounding humble and uncertain, unused to asking for help. "So I can sit with my back against it. And ... and then would you move him so that I can hold him?"

Mutely, looking as if they wanted to weep - so that Jim wondered in astonishment if maybe they did understand after all - Joel helped him to his feet and supported him with his strong arms until he was settled, and Simon carefully lifted Blair to carry him and laid him so that Jim could hold him close, secure in his one good arm. Brokenly, Jim bowed his head until his cheek rested on Blair's curls, desperately sorry that this was all he could do, just hold him, let him know - if he could feel at all, was aware at all - that he wasn't alone and hadn't been abandoned. Just hold him and pray with all he was to whatever deity or power Blair believed in that his partner would wake up and be fine, just fine. Joel and Simon left him alone, and did what they could to create a space of privacy around them.

Morgan came, to check on them, and he looked grave as he squatted in front of Jim. "How's he doing?" he asked.

Exhausted by his own injury and the anxiety that gnawed at him, Jim shook his head slowly. "I don't know," he rasped. "He's still breathing. Guess that's a good sign."

The Major smiled bleakly and reached to grip Jim's shoulder. "A very good sign. Don't give up on him. The kid's tough."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "Tougher, a lot tougher, than most people know."

Dusk fell and campfires were lit. A space in the clearing was stacked with brush and deadwood, and the bodies were laid upon the pyre, as they were after every battlefield and encampment death. They had no means to transport the dead home; and they didn't want to risk their fallen being dug out of shallow graves to be ravaged by wild animals. Nor did they want the enemy to know how many they'd lost. So they burned the bodies, and watched silently in respect and sorrow until the fire caught and then they turned away, unable to watch their comrades burn down to ash.

Quinn, nursing a bruised wrist and carrying on as if it was broken and his whole hand was about to fall off, swigging rotgut from his apparently bottomless canteen, staggered by and paused, weaving a little as he stared at them blearily. "Ah, t'aint that the sweetest thing," he mocked drunkenly. "Holdin' the l'il savage while he's sleepin' like he was yer sweetie pie. Allas thought there was some'tin unnatural 'bout you two."

Jim glared daggers at him and the only thing keeping him from surging to his feet to bash the fool into the next week was his need to keep Blair safe and secure, not dump him unceremoniously on the ground. But Simon and Joel had no such restraint upon them and they loomed over the drunken sot. Telling him to shut the hell up, they shoved him none too gently to get him to move on.

A little later, Simon and Joel prepared a light meal, but he wasn't hungry. As night fell, the camp stilled but for the sentries who were posted around the perimeter, and the restless moans of the wounded. The moon rose overhead, and the fires burned down to embers. His old friends had turned in hours before and were snoring peacefully nearby.

Jim rested his head against the tree trunk and looked up at the stars, and he remembered Blair's excitement on the sloop, as they'd set out on this perilous journey. The kid didn't let fears about what the morrow might hold interfere with his enjoyment of the day he had in his grasp. "I wish you could see what I see, too," he murmured and then looked down at his partner. "Especially what I see when I look at you."

Tired to the bone, he again rested his cheek on Blair's curly head, and tightened his grip around his friend's slack body, pulling him closer. "Wake up, sleepyhead," he whispered. "I miss you when you're not around."

As the hours passed, he fell into light, unsettled slumber, and he had a weird dream that seemed to happen over and over, as if his mind was stuck on the same fractured, distorted images, waiting for him to understand the meaning, the import. A vague, hazy, blue jungle and a black jaguar, looming across a path, blocking it, and behind the big cat, starkly illuminating its dark form, was brilliantly, blazingly bright, blinding white light that made Jim wince away. And then he became aware of a gray wolf curled at the big cat's feet, mewling feebly, as if it were hurt, and crawling on his belly, inching toward the light. But the jaguar howled and snarled furiously and would not let the wolf pass. Strange jungle. Strange dream. But he thought he knew the cat and the wolf. They seemed familiar to him in a way he couldn't remember.

Even when he dozed lightly and dreamed the odd dream, Jim remained preternaturally attuned to Blair's breathing and his heartbeat, as if the vibrations of those sounds resonated within his own body. So, when Blair's heart rate began to pick up, beating more strongly and his breathing deepened, Jim jerked into full alertness. "Hey," he murmured hopefully. "You coming back anytime soon?"

Blair stirred slightly as the sound of his voice, and frowned heavily. His lips twisted in a grimace of pain; one hand flapped up to his head and he moaned softly.

"Easy, Chief," Jim soothed. "You've got a hell of a headache, but you're okay."

"Mmm?" he muttered, not yet fully conscious but struggling up from the depths. The long lashes twitched and then Blair blinked and his eyes shifted around, his pupils wide in the darkness, his gaze confused. "Jim?" he rasped, one hand gripping Jim's shirt. "Wha' happened?"

"Somebody tried to take off the top of your skull, Sandburg," he replied, almost managing his usual sardonic tone. "You, uh, you passed out a few hours ago."

Blair's brow puckered as he reached for his memories, and then his eyes widened and he twisted, to look up at Jim and to push himself upright, carefully extricating himself from Jim's embrace. "How're you?" he asked. "Your shoulder ...?"

"Relax, I'm doin' okay," Jim assured him, unable to resist smiling with relief that Sandburg seemed alert and generally okay. "Don't be moving too fast - bound to be dizzy. You'll make yourself sick."

Grimacing again, as if recalled to his own hurts, Blair nodded and delicately touched his stomach. "Feel a bit queasy, to tell you the truth," he admitted softly so as not to disturb the others. "An' my head feels like it wants to come off."

"Probably going to hurt like hell for a couple days," Jim told him sympathetically. "Joel left some broth over the fire, if you're hungry?"

"No, just thirsty," he replied, looking around dazedly for a canteen. When he found it, he half crawled to it, and drank slowly, but deeply. Setting the vessel down, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed, as if relieved the water didn't just come right back up again.

As his thoughts cleared, he looked around and then back at Jim ... and he frowned. "How long you been holding me like that?" he asked, a hint of accusation in his tone. "You should be flat out resting - you lost a fair bit of blood."

Looking away, Jim shrugged and then winced, gasping a little at the molten shard of pain digging into his shoulder.

"Ah, geez," Blair groused as he crawled back to sit beside Jim and share the support of the broad, ancient oak, settling close enough that Jim's good shoulder was against his. "Tell me you weren't holding onto me like that since I keeled over."

"Well," Jim replied, making a face that said he was fairly caught and trying to make light of it, "I cannot tell a lie."

Snorting, Blair shook his head. "You're nuts, you know that? What? You thought ...." But his aggrieved tone trailed off and he swiveled to squint at Jim, leaning close to read his eyes in the moonlight. "Ah, man," he sighed. "You really did think I might ... might not make it."

Embarrassed, Jim's gaze dropped and he turned his face away. But Blair wouldn't let him retreat. Lifting his hand, he cupped Jim's cheek and drew his face back toward him. "I'm sorry you were so worried," he said soberly. "But, well ... it means a lot to me that you were. Thanks."

"Just glad you're okay, Chief," Jim muttered. "Just, uh, duck or something next time."

Blair snickered softly, but he continued to study Jim so intently that he had the feeling the kid could see right into his head, or maybe right to his soul. "You know," Blair murmured softly, "you'd be okay ... I mean if anything ever did happen ...."

Jim's gaze flew up at that, and he growled, "Don't. Just don't, all right? I don't want to go there."

"But, Jim, you need to know that -"

"I mean it, Sandburg," he grated, but his voice gave him away by cracking. "I don't ... I can't ...."

His expression softening into understanding and compassion, Blair nodded. "Okay, I get it. Like I don't want to go there about you, about anything ever happening to you. Ever." He settled back against the tree and leaned his aching head on Jim's shoulder. "Just know one thing, okay? I'd never really be gone. I'd never, not ever, no matter what, _ever_ , leave you."

Tears sprang from nowhere, blinding him, and he had to press his lips together to keep them from trembling. Wordlessly, he lifted his good arm around Blair's shoulders and drew him close. He sniffed and turned his face to lightly press his lips against Blair's brow. "I'll hold you to that, Chief," he rasped hoarsely.

"No problem," Blair assured him softly but firmly. "I'd never lie to you, and my word is good. I promise, Jim. You're stuck with me. Whatever might happen - you're stuck with me."

"I can live with that," he replied solemnly. The promise relaxed him and the tension he'd felt for too many hours eased away. But his lips quirked wryly in self-mockery as he thought he was like a little kid in the dark, being reassured there were no monsters under the bed, and believing just that simply because he wanted to believe it so badly. Nobody could make that kind of promise, but it meant a lot that Blair wanted to and that _he_ believed it, 'cause Blair believed in things like forever. Well, Blair would just have to keep believing enough for both of them.

They settled against one another, and Blair drew the blanket up to cover them both. Gradually, they slipped toward sleep. Just before he drifted off, Blair mumbled, "Had the weirdest dream. Was tryin' to get to this big bright light, where it would be warm you know? 'Cause the jungle was all blue an' cold. But the panther ... my panther, wouldn't let me past."

Jim twitched awake, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He drew a shuddery breath and swallowed heavily. "T'was just a dream, Chief," he muttered. "Just a dream."

Yawning, Blair nodded his head against his shoulder. "Felt so real," he whispered, and then he settled and slept.

"Just a dream," Jim insisted to himself, not inclined to believe in signs or visions. "Just a dream." Losing himself in the soothing cadences of Blair's steady breathing and heartbeat, he gradually relaxed into sleep.

* * *

There wasn't a man among them who wasn't bruised, battered, stiff and sore the next morning, but they were warriors and they couldn't lie around until they felt better. As soon as he woke, just after dawn, Blair mixed them a potion of willowbark tea seasoned with honey, and insisted they all drink their battered tin mugs dry. "It'll help ease the aches," he said matter-of-factly. "Trust me. You'll be glad you did."

When Morgan came round to check on them, they'd already changed their dressings, washed the dirty rags in the creek with the soap Sandburg carried in his pack, broken their fast, had packed up their gear, and were ready to go. The Major nodded approvingly, said simply, "Glad to see you woke up, Sandburg," and, with a wave that they should follow, turned to head out.

"We've done what we came for," he called back over his shoulder. "The militiamen are staying and'll reinforce Fort Schuyler, but it's time we got back to camp. Must be the middle of August already. Gentleman Johnny'll be on his way." He turned with a rakish grin and winked. "Wouldn't want to miss the party."

The first day - slogging through the ancient forest, pressing through thick undergrowth, climbing and descending the steep grades - the going was slow, but the walking helped loosen stiff and sore muscles and got their blood flowing. Still, they found it seriously taxing of their limited reserves of energy. Jim's shoulder was raw with pain, and Blair kept feeding him sips of the bitter tea he'd poured into a canteen before they'd broken camp, and murmuring to him to 'turn it down'. Made irritable by the persistent pain, and disgruntled that Sandburg was focusing on him when the kid could hardly stand on his own when dizziness overcame him in waves, gnawed by worry about Blair's head injury, Jim had a tendency to snap that he was fine. Vastly unimpressed, Blair would snap back that he was a stubborn ass. Then Jim would grimace and sigh, and nod and do whatever Blair told him to do. When Blair routinely just patted him on the back after he did as he was told, as if he was a toddler being jollied along, Jim's sense of the ridiculous would take over and he'd laugh and Blair would give him a winning, if a bit wan, smile. Beside them, keeping a careful watch over them, and ever ready to lend a hand of support on the steep grades or when Blair started to weave, Simon and Joel chuckled at both of them, glad to know they were feeling well enough to be bickering.

The next day was easier, and they all made better time. Jim's arm didn't plague him as much and Blair's dizziness abated. Both of them found their appetite had returned with a vengeance, and they munched on hard bread and cheese as they traveled. The third day, the squad of sharpshooters found where they'd hidden their longboats, covered over with brush, near the banks of the Hudson. Jim stood and listened, his gaze raking the steep, brooding forests around them, but he could sense no threat. They hauled one of the heavy boats into the river, splashing through water up to their knees, and climbed inside. Those that could, grabbed a paddle. Those that couldn't, like Jim with his bum shoulder, kept a lookout.

Heading down river was easier and faster than paddling against the strong current, so they made good time. More than one of the men idly wondered why Burgoyne hadn't elected to move his army on the water - he'd've made a whole lot better time. But they were glad he'd followed the traditional practice, marching from one place to another, regardless of the challenges of the terrain.

At night in their camp, they quietly speculated about whether he was still on his way down the river, or if the defeat of half his forces would have discouraged him and sent him scurrying back to Quebec. But the unhappy consensus was that he was committed because Howe was probably, even now, on his way from the south.

They had to stop Burgoyne before the two armies met up, or they could be in a world of trouble.

* * *

By the time they strode back into Gates' encampment, most of the bruises had faded and all of the wounds were well on their way to healing as well as they ever would. Some would always have a bit of a limp. Jim's shoulder would always ache when the weather was damp and a storm was coming. When he was tired, Blair would be prone to dizzy spells. But they were more than ready to dance again when the tune was called.

Arnold spotted them and hastened across the barren, beaten earth that served as a parade square. "Dispatch arrived from Fort Stanwix days ago," he said warmly. "Good job." Looking around, he waved them to an open patch of grass and told them to relax. Several dropped to sit on the ground, most just hunkered down, wondering what he wanted to say to them.

"We also got a dispatch that Howe was spotted landing at Turkey Point in Maryland. He's going to Philadelphia."

Blair flashed a look at Jim, who nodded, understanding his partner's concern. Washington would be going into battle before they could possibly make it back. There was nothing they could do but hope the assassin either didn't make a move or muffed it. The General knew there was a threat and they had to believe he'd take reasonable precautions - or wish he would. The man seemed to think he was invincible and he routinely took stupid chances, more often leading the troops than guiding them with orders from a safe distance in the rear.

"So that leaves us to deal with Burgoyne," Arnold was saying, pulling their attention back to the situation at hand. "He's moving down from Fort Edward and could be here any time in the next week or so. We need to be ready."

The men nodded stoically. Morgan stroked his rifle and spoke for all of them. "We're ready, Sir. Just let us know where and when."

* * *

They weren't back in camp long before they heard talk about a serious falling out between Arnold and Gates. Apparently, or so the story went, Arnold had pushed too hard, too often, slamming his fist on the dining table and storming to his feet, shouting something about Gates being an old grandmother - and Gates had ordered Arnold out of his sight. Since then, they hadn't spoken and Gates, the senior officer, had given him no role in the plans for the military engagement to come.

Jim was disgusted when he heard the gossip. Striding off, Blair following in his wake, he grumbled, "God damned glory-seeking stupid ass excuses for leaders."

"Er, which leader, specifically?" Blair asked, being deliberately provocative.

"Gates is a moron," Jim clarified as he crossed his arms and leaned against a tree far from any curious ears and stared balefully at the forest. "He thinks because he was trained in England that he knows all there is about warfare. Thinks he's better than everyone else, including Washington. Figures he should be in charge - and if he can pull off this victory and if Philadelphia falls, he'll have a good chance of Congress shoving Washington out of the way. Damn it - him, Lee, Sullivan - they're all the same. More concerned about their reputation and promotion than the cause or the battle at hand."

"And General Arnold?"

"He at least knows what he's doing, isn't afraid to capitalize on opportunities - or to fight alongside the men, rather than hide well behind the lines. And he's not married to the traditional style of warfare. This lining up less than fifty yards apart and shooting at one another is damned stupid. We don't have the men or the ammunition to waste. It's a slaughter. All a question of who can afford to lose the most men." Sighing he shook his head. "From what I've heard from the men who've seen the action up here over the last couple years, Arnold was responsible for the wins here in the north last year and the year before - or at least, he held the British off. But Gates took full credit for that in his official report. And Arnold also did something significant in South Carolina just before he came north this year, and the ranking ass down there also took credit. Only thing that surprises me is that Arnold keeps trying so damned hard to make a difference and win this war. He's a rich man, or was, a successful merchant. Most men like him, with the exception of Nathaneal, are still taking care of business, not out risking their lives." Looking down at Blair, he went on, "Arnold's going to use what we did in Connecticut, I'm sure of it. Use snipers to even the odds and shake up the enemy. Make the Brits less complacent. Gates probably told him it's not 'honourable', like there's anything honourable about standing like a target and waiting to be shot down. That's not courage. That's just stupid."

Blair nodded. He'd thought it pretty stupid himself, the first time he'd seen the two armies line up on a field and start shooting when there were perfectly good rocks and trees around to use as modest shields and give a man a chance to sight his target and not be so shit-scared of being shot that he couldn't see straight.

"I've been thinking about something that I think Arnold might like - but Gates would probably think it was too provocative," he ventured.

Curious, Jim cocked a brow. "And what might that be?"

"Well, you know how Burgoyne plastered warning posters all over the north - fall in line or my friendly Indians will get you \- to terrorize folks up here? Well, I wondered if we shouldn't put up our own posters on every other tree south of Saratoga."

"Why south of Saratoga?"

"Because if Gates was going to try to stop him above Saratoga, we'd be camped on that side of it by now."

"You're getting to be a pretty good tactician, Chief. So what would this poster say?"

"Uh, I don't know. Something like, 'This far and no farther'. To show that we're drawing our own line in the sand."

Jim smiled slowly. "I like it." Looping an arm around Blair's shoulders, in a better mood, he directed them back toward the camp. "And, you know, I think General Arnold will love the idea."

Turned out, Arnold grinned like a shark and then started to laugh, liking the idea very much. It appealed to his sense of drama and of umbrage at the British arrogance. This was their land, and it was time they announced that stark reality along with the implied warning. It was subtle but bold ... the warning cold and decisive. He set them to work lettering simple signs on whatever paper or cardboard came to hand. And then, in contravention of Gates' orders that he stay out of the conflict, he led his sharpshooters out the next day to assess 'the lay of the land' and to covertly hammer up the posters along the route Burgoyne would be bound to take.

As they quartered the land between the encampment and the outskirts of Saratoga, they planted the posters on trees and posts, the men grinning as they hammered in the nails. They felt cocky and ... it gave them confidence.

On the way back, they crossed a broad meadow and Arnold drew on his reins and paused. "What's this place?" he demanded, waggling his fingers for the ordinance map Ellison, as the designated scout, was carrying.

"It's called Freeman's Farm," Jim told him, handing up the worn pages.

"Freeman's Farm," Arnold echoed as his gaze swept the meadow once again, the small, abandoned cabin on one side, and the encroaching forest. Then, studying the map thoughtfully, he traced routes from the north that Burgoyne would mostly follow to move so many men and cannon, and from the south, Gates' entrenched position. "Freeman's Farm," he murmured again.

Looking up and around, he said softly. "This is it. This is the place where we meet them and make our stand. What more fateful place could there be, more perfect place, than for the Empire that is trying to quash us to face us on land called Freeman's Farm? We are Americans, free men, and these United States are our 'farm'. Here. We'll meet them here."

He pointed around at the trees and the heavy undergrowth on the edge of the meadow. "You'll secrete yourselves under cover and in the branches above them. And when they come into this field, on my signal, we open fire."

"At just the men, sir?" Morgan clarified, referring to the unspoken chivalry of not firing deliberately on officers.

"That's old thinking. The kind of traditional thinking that lets this war drag on and on as they simply send in more fodder for the artillery and guns," he replied, but mildly; not in rebuke, but to clarify matters. "The British have abrogated that consideration themselves ... too many of our fine officers have fallen in battle - hell, they've come after me personally a time or two. You get an officer in your sights, you bring him down."

The men nodded, most of them soberly, understanding the need whether they were entirely comfortable with the new style of warfare or not. But Quinn grinned salaciously, evidently very much liking the idea of shooting from cover, in surprise, savoring the vision of shooting officers like fish in a barrel.

Jim noticed his sly manner and wondered about the man. Wondered what manner of man seemed to actually enjoy sneaking around to take the lives of other men. Sniffing, he picked up the scent of male pheromones, easy enough to become familiar with in a military camp, and he was revolted to realize Quinn seemed to get a sensual, sexual charge out of the killing he would be engaging in. Now that his suspicions were raised, thinking back, he recalled that last winter Quinn was never short of ready cash to buy as much drink or as many woman as he ever wanted. He wasn't the only one, of course but, coupled with his grousing attitude and his propensity to do as little as possible, his persistent tendency to hang back in any battle and now this predatory delight in killing men from hiding ... it all began to add up.

Watching the sleazy creep that made his skin crawl, Jim made a quiet bet with himself that whatever happened to the south, in the confrontation with Howe, Washington would not be shot from his own ranks, not this month, anyway.

As they made their way back to the main encampment, Jim muttered to Blair, Simon and Joel, "Watch Quinn. I'm thinking it was a stroke of inspiration to bring him along."

"That weasel?" Joel exclaimed.

But Blair and Simon studied Jim and considered his comment. "Better that he be here than with Washington, right?" Blair murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "The Universe does move in mysterious ways."

And Simon grinned and ruffled his hair. "Always did say you were a quick'un."

* * *

After Jim and his small band of scouts reported that Burgoyne had reached Saratoga and had stopped there, setting up a camp and building fortifications, frustration mounted in the camp when days passed with nothing happening. What was Burgoyne waiting for? Did he imagine they were going to attack him, for he had his own spies and scouts and had to know they were close?

On a hillside well over a mile away from Burgoyne's encampment, Jim watched the activity, assessing the tension he could read in the bearing of the men, and hear in their voices. "They're worried," he muttered, his gaze narrowing with surprise. "They're nervous about the battle."

"Proves they're not stupid," Blair murmured. "For the first time, we're pretty evenly matched, with what? About seven thousand men on each side? But they've got to be rattled by the trouncing we gave the column set upon capturing Fort Stanwix, not to mention taking out the Hessians after the supply depot - they have to have heard about all that by now, right? I mean, think about it, about what we heard about the German mercenaries last year and ... and how wild and savage we thought they were? _But we beat them._ We've significantly reduced Burgoyne's resources and defeated the best he had. If I was them, I'd be pretty damned worried about fighting us, too. If they were smart, they'd turn around and march right on back to Quebec."

Jim grinned down at him and then tilted his head bemusedly. Blair looked more like a ragamuffin than a military tactician, with leaves and twigs caught in his wild hair and a smudge of dirt on his cheek, his leather clothing stiff with sweat and old splatters of blood. But he supposed he didn't look a whole lot better. "Well, they're not going anywhere today," Jim told him. Wrinkling his nose, he suggested dryly, "There was a pond about three miles back. What say we take a break, clean up a bit? We're both way past rank, Chief."

Amused, Blair snorted. "War is hell, man, and damned filthy," he whined playfully. "But yeah, sounds like a plan I could get behind."

Keeping to the shadows and avoiding showing themselves against the horizon on hilltops, they ambled through the forest. Some of the trees had begun to don their fancy dress for the annual autumn ball, with leaves turning luminous yellows and vibrant oranges, with a dash of crimson against the deep blue-green of the pines and purple shadows. Their footfalls on the mossy earth were silent, and they could hear birds that had not yet fled south twittering in the branches above their heads. Before long, they came to the burbling brook that fed the pond in the hollow below them and, when a break in the trees showed the valley beyond, they paused to enjoy the view.

"It's such a beautiful world, man," Blair sighed as he bent to pluck a long blade of grass to chew on. "Shame we can't seem to find a way to just, you know, enjoy it."

"The war can't go on forever, Chief," Jim consoled him. "Peace will come, one day."

Blair looked up at him and then his gaze took on a faraway look and he tilted his head as if listening to the soft rustle of the wind in the brittle leaves. Sadness blossomed and darkened the striking blue depths of his eyes and he blinked, before dropping his gaze and bowing his head.

"What?" Jim asked, peering at him, feeling an unaccountable shiver lift the fine hairs on his skin.

"I think it'll be a long, long time before this world knows any peace," he replied quietly, his tone hollow. "Men ... men can always find reasons to fight." Looking out across the countryside, he shrugged. "For land, gold, power, just to control other men. There's always a reason, Jim, when men look for one. Always a reason to kill."

"Whoa, where did that come from?" Jim chided him, striving for a tone of indulgent mockery. "Don't you think you're too young to be that cynical?"

Gazing at him with an unreadable look in his eyes, Blair said evenly, "I don't remember ever being that young." But he seemed to see Jim, then, for the first time since he'd grown reflective, saw the flash of pain for him in his friend's eyes, and he gave himself a shake, found a crooked smile. "But there are always men who seek peace, too," he offered, trying for a more positive tone. "And, yeah, you're right. One day, this particular war will finally be over and we can move on." Turning away and continuing down the slope to the hollow, he added with determined cheerfulness, "Meanwhile, we have a gorgeous day and a little peace of our own to enjoy. It'll be good to feel clean again. Real good."

Jim stood stock still for a moment, just watching his partner, but then got himself moving and followed along behind. Still, he had a hard time shaking the eerie sense that Sandburg sometimes gave him, the feeling that the kid saw and heard more of the world, in some ways, than he did. His memory drifted back to the day he'd heard Blair tell his story to Simon, and he'd said the shaman had told him that if he listened closely, the wind would tell him secrets. His gaze lifting to the trees around them, Jim wondered why secrets the wind had whispered had made Blair look so forlorn.

* * *

On September 18th, Jim caught enough of a conversation between two officers in the encampment below to know that Burgoyne planned to make his move the next day. Hastening back to Gates, he made his formal report and then they sought out Arnold, to bring him up to speed. The General listened and nodded, and then told him to alert Morgan. Though Gates had refused Arnold any role in the upcoming battle but 'reconnaissance', Arnold planned to stretch those orders for all they were worth. In the flurry of all the other preparations for battle that went on that night, nobody noticed Arnold and his small band of sharpshooters silently slipping off into the shadows.

By the time dawn arrived, they were scattered around the south fringes of the wide meadow of Freeman's Farm, some on their bellies under thick undergrowth, others securely perched high in the branches of beech, elm and maple trees, obscured by the leaves. The morning was chilly and fog obscured the landscape. Though he couldn't see much as he hunkered beside Blair behind dusty wild shrubbery, Jim could hear the distant rattle and shouted orders of armies forming up - Burgoyne ahead of them and Gates behind on Bemis Heights where he intended to make his stand.

The hours passed with maddening slowness as they waited for the fog to lift and the redcoats to begin their march. Finally, at eleven o'clock, the sun broke through and Burgoyne gave the order to advance. There was time before the column to reach their position so they each broke out the dry rations they'd brought - bread, cheese, jerky, and they drank brackish water from their canteens.

And then they waited a little longer.

Near one PM, the redcoats streamed onto and across the meadow. The day was now warm and the British were suffering under the red serge they wore. They slowed, needing a break before they pushed on and tried to sweep Gates from Bemis Heights. Officers gathered at the small, sturdy wooden cabin on the end of the meadow to review their orders.

Shots rang out, shattering the dusty stillness of the early afternoon. The first blistering volley brought down all the officers. The second sharp hail of shot began decimating the ranks. Stupified by surprise, the redcoats and the Hessians amongst them were thrown in chaos, scrambling for their weapons, desperate to identify the invisible enemy that was cutting them to ribbons. A few of Morgan's men, fired by adrenalin's rush, charged without orders, and brought down a few more, but had to retreat smartly in the face of the numbers arrayed against them. But, in the further confusion of their aborted charge, British warriors began firing on their own.

Alerted by the shots that conflict had broken out in advance of their position, believing the order to engage had been given, light infantry and seven regiments spontaneously moved off the heights to offer reinforcements. When the British rallied and charged, Burgoyne quickly took command of the arriving force and gave the order to regroup in a nearby cornfield to fend off the attack rather than fall back to the protection of the main contingent up on the Heights.

Time after time, the Americans attacked the British line but, though there were considerable losses on both sides, the British did not give way. Three times during the explosive, bloody afternoon, Arnold left the field and the rode hellbent for leather back to Gates, to beg him to give orders for the main force of the Continental Army to join the battle. But Gates - furious that his orders had been disobeyed - refused to engage and thousands of patriot soldiers could do nothing but stand frustrated and angry on the Heights and watch their comrades bravely confront their enemy.

Arnold led five charges himself that fateful day, and his marksmen continued to harry the enemy, their aim relentlessly deadly; the feisty Brigadier only retired from the battle after he was shot in the leg and his horse fell on him, reprising his earlier injuries and worsening them. But still they could not break the line or separate Burgoyne's main column from the wings that supported him. Finally, after five in the afternoon, unable to summarily defeat seven thousand British and Hessian troops with only a handful of regiments, however brave and noble the men were, however willing they were to stand and fight, the Americans gave up and allowed the enemy to retreat from the field of combat with such alacrity that they left their dead and wounded behind. The two sides dug temporary trenches about two miles apart and settled in for the night.

* * *

The British counted the day's battle as a victory, but it was hollow. They'd lost a thousand killed and wounded, far too many of them officers, which left the organization and conduct of future engagements very much at risk. The patriots had lost only half that number in their desperate charges to hold the British line in place. And hold them they did. For the first time since he'd set out from Quebec weeks before, Gentleman Johnny had encountered the resistance of the regular Continental Army, not just militiamen, and his unchallenged march south had now hit a wall.

'This far and no farther' the crudely scrawled handmade notices had warned him and, as the sun slipped toward the horizon, for the first time he wondered if he'd make it all the way down the Hudson. Overlooking the trenches and the hasty pickets, he shook his head and cursed Howe's stubborn refusal to support his drive down the Hudson. Claiming Philadelphia might be a serious blow to the morale of the rebels, but dividing the colonies by controlling the Hudson would bring them to their knees.

He'd chosen the right strategy, he knew it.

But he wasn't sure that he could triumph with the handful of men he had left.

His gaze lifting to Bemis Heights, he considered his intelligence reports that Gates not only had at least as many men as he did, but that hundreds, even thousands, of militiamen were pouring in to offer their support with every passing day. If the reports were accurate, the patriots now outnumbered him as much as three to one. Disgusted, he turned his back on the enemy and stomped into his tent to weigh the options remaining to him - wait for Clinton to fight his way north up the Hudson to reinforce him, or retreat back to Quebec. Either way, he was galled to know that he did not have the strength to continue the forward march south along the Hudson on his own. If Clinton made it, then there was still a chance, but he'd have to come soon.

Later that evening, he passed the orders to retreat back to the fortified position they'd established near Saratoga. Gates, now with an army at least twelve thousand strong, followed upon their heels and quickly surrounded his encampment.

For weeks, Burgoyne waited for Clinton and had no way of knowing the Americans had stopped his ally's northward march and had blockaded the Hudson far below his position. Messengers between them weren't getting through, were being captured by the patriots. He felt blind and deaf, and grew increasingly frustrated and bitter that Howe had abandoned him. He was running out of both food and time.

* * *

Jim's lips thinned as he listened to the angry shouts coming from the command tent. Arnold, obviously in great pain, had hobbled in to confront Gates, demanding that the men who had fought so valiantly at Freeman's Farm receive commendation for their efforts. But Gates was unmoved. The commanders had defied his orders and would get no congratulations for that from him. He was scathing in his abuse of Arnold, calling him an irresponsible hothead who couldn't be trusted to follow orders, and accusing him of seeking glory at the risk of others' lives. Arnold snarled it was better to risk and stop the enemy's until then unchallenged advance, than to sit on his hands and watch others fight for freedom from a safe vantage point miles away. Some men risked their all, he stated icily, beside himself with rage, and some men were cowards, and that was that.

"We can take him now!" Arnold insisted vehemently, shouting over Gates' roar at being impugned as a coward. "We've got them surrounded, outnumbered. If we press our advantage, we could force their surrender and end the British threat in this part of our country right now! If you're not careful, he may yet fight his way out and slip away!"

Furious with the haggling, with the challenge to his authority, Gates had him forcibly removed from his sight.

"The bastard," Jim swore viciously when he saw their leader being officially escorted back to his tent, and a guard stationed to ensure he stayed there. His visage stark with fury, he glared toward Gates' quarters. "What do you want to bet that pompous, useless stuffed-shirt takes all the credit for this win?"

Blair was still gazing at the guard standing at attention outside Arnold's tent. "No bet," he replied, his tone hard, unforgiving. "Any man who treats a hero like Arnold with such contempt, and denies the courage of others, let alone the fact that we stopped the damned British in their tracks - such a man would do anything for his own glory. He's a waste of good air. Gates can't be trusted; that's it, that's all."

The mood in the camp was grim over the next weeks as Gates refused to relent and accord Arnold the laurels all the men felt he richly deserved. Contempt grew for Gates amongst the rank and file as time wore on. There were few who disagreed that he was as useless as tits on a bull - and a lot less amusing to behold.

* * *

The tense waiting came to an end on October 17th when Burgoyne quietly surrendered, laying his sword in the hands of his former classmate, Horatio Gates.

Later that day, Jim suddenly and violently threw a clay mug of ale against the nearest tree, shattering it. When Blair looked at him askance, he pointed at the command headquarters and snarled, "Gates is dictating his report to Washington and Congress. He's taking all credit for the defeat of Burgoyne for himself. There's no mention of Arnold, except to say he's an argumentative and impetuous upstart who won't follow orders and can't be relied upon in combat to do his job." He paused, breathing hard, struggling for control. "God save us," he rasped, "from incompetent, useless leaders like him. Watch, just watch - now that Washington has lost Philadelphia, Gates will be angling to be made Commander in Chief. And the war really will be over. He'll sit on his damned hands and let the British walk all over us. Just like Lee. The two of them are so fucking useless that I really wonder if they're not secret Loyalists who are trying to ensure we lose this war."

"Careful," Blair urged vehemently, surging to his feet to grab Jim's arms to silence him and looking around warily. "Those are treasonous words," he warned heatedly. "If Gates hears you, he'll have you hung."

"And that would suit him just fine, wouldn't it?" Jim allowed sarcastically, glaring down at Blair as he struggled with his anger. "One more patriot who tries to do his best that he wouldn't have to worry about maybe making a difference."

" _You_ _do_ make a difference, Jim! A _huge_ difference. You're like a secret weapon, man!" Blair hissed forcefully, half-growling his words right into his face, taking his attention away from his grievances and making him listen. "You're _always_ getting information we couldn't get in any other way, giving us advance notice of British intentions and actions before they can be enacted, letting our side get prepared. Washington wouldn't still have an army, wouldn't have been able to slip out of harm's way so many times, if you'd not been listening and watching, his eyes and ears."

When Jim tried to pull away, Blair just gripped him harder and shook him a little to make him pay attention. "You're _vital_ to this war effort, Jim; absolutely _irreplaceable_. We _need_ you focused and engaged until it's finally over. You hear me? No matter what, you can't let _anything_ stop you from doing your best. We sure in hell can't afford to lose you because your sense of fair play is offended. _So just calm down._ Yes, sure, what Gates is doing is wrong, but we haven't got the power to stop him and we can't do anything for General Arnold here. We'll inform Washington of our personal knowledge of events when we get back to him. Set the record straight and tell him to watch Gates, watch him closely." When he felt the tension finally begin to ebb from Jim's body, he sighed gratefully and patted Jim's arm consolingly. Raking his hair back, he turned away, and began to pack their gear. "We're done here, man. We won. We need to get back to the General before the river freezes over."

Nodding stiffly, still livid though less explosively angry, Jim mutely agreed and went to tell Morgan that he and his scouts would be moving back south in the morning. Morgan, every bit as disgusted as Jim was, decided that he and his men would go with them, and he promised he'd get word to Arnold that they, at least, would be informing Washington of what exactly did happen on Freeman's Farm.

The next morning, just as dawn was breaking, all of the sharpshooters Arnold had brought with him appropriated two longboats from the mass of them beached along the riverbank, and paddled south, disappearing like wraiths into the fog shrouding the water.

Gates didn't even notice they were gone.

* * *

Their trip down the Hudson was uneventful but for Quinn's constant whining and grumbling. Morgan threatened to toss him over the side if he didn't shut up, so he finally subsided and was seemingly content to view the world with a scowling visage. The days remained clear and the current strong, speeding them on their way. Around them, the earth was brilliantly garbed in the luminous, exuberant and staggeringly beautiful colours of autumn as if the trees were having one last riotous celebration of life before the wind blew cold and left them barren. Leaves had already started to fall, a gold and crimson shower that wafted gently over the river, urging them onward and waving valiantly as they passed by. The air was fragrant with their crisp scent and the tang of woodsmoke and, though the sun still burned hot, the breeze held a chill warning of winter's approach.

After they left the Hudson, they jogged overland and into the high Pennsylvania hills, their boots crunching on the crisp dry leaves underfoot. The closer they got to Philadelphia, though, the more wary of British patrols they became, and they slowed to move more silently. Jim held point, Blair close beside him and frequently reaching out to ground him, as he cast his senses for threats and a trace of Washington's camp.

Finally, in early November, two weeks after they'd left Gates, they rejoined Washington's encampment. The General was warm in his greeting and his congratulations for their unprecedented success in the north, but he listened with growing gravity to their report about how the events had actually transpired. Turning away, he rubbed his chin and nodded thoughtfully. Though he didn't say anything about Gates, Jim had the impression the news of the man's ambition and probable machinations with members of Congress to have Washington removed from command weren't unknown to the General. Well, Washington had faced similar challenges in the past, from Lee and his own aide-de-camp, and had survived. Shrugging, Jim left those political matters in the General's hands. At least now he knew that Arnold wasn't the dilettante Gates made him out to be.

Washington then brought them quickly up to speed on the current situation and Jim was surprised that the General was less depressed about the loss of Philadelphia than he would have expected. The man's resilience was astonishing. Instead of bemoaning what couldn't be undone, he was effusive in his praise for Benjamin Franklin's success in winning a treaty with France; apparently, King Louis had been suitably impressed by the stunning victory at Saratoga. Their revolution was now a world war and the French would be sending gunboats in the new year to contend with the British navy. And, he went on to tell them, some anonymous supporter in France had sent wagonloads of crates with uniforms, so now they looked like an army and not simply a hodge-podge of ragged farmers, frontiersmen, clerks and bakers and candlestick makers. And, under the uniforms there had been weapons, hundreds and hundreds of rifles, weapons they badly needed ... only, Washington added with wry observation, "We would have done better in stopping Howe's advance to Philadelphia if the firing pins had worked or if the right sized ammunition had been included with the rifles."

And that was all he said about how his blind reliance upon the new armament had contributed to the loss of the capital. He knew he should have had the men drilling, testing the new guns, but there'd been neither time nor ammunition to spare, and he'd not anticipated the disastrous problems they'd encountered in the midst of battle.

"Now," he said, dusting his hands together as if brushing off the blows of the past, "our task is to block Howe's supplies from reaching Philadelphia. It will be hard on the city - pity the poor souls trapped there - but if we can starve him out, he'll return to New York post haste. Even if we fail to soundly defeat him, we can at least chivvy him on his way."

Briskly, he assigned Jim and his scouts their new duties, to keep watch on Fort Mifflin, the installation that blocked the Delaware River and rained cannon balls on any British supply ship that attempted to pass, and Fort Mercer, the hastily erected fort that stood astride Howe's highway between Philadelphia and the Delaware. "The British will take them, if they can. They've already tried to take Fort Mifflin and Fort Mercer, both, but so far with no success. Indeed, Colonel Christopher Greene has made them pay dearly for their efforts." Sighing, he scraped his face, in his weariness betraying some of the despair he generally hid so well. "It's only a matter of time, I'm afraid. We can't stand against the gunboats forever. But we need to support and provision the brave men there as best we can, so they can hold out as long as possible."

Before they turned to go, Jim warned Washington of his suspicions about Quinn. The General considered the news bemusedly and then chuckled. "Well," he replied, a glint of humour in his eyes, "we can hardly hang a man for being a drunken and inveterate whiner. If he did his duty and contributed to our success on the Hudson, then that's what counts."

"Sir," Blair interjected soberly, "yes, he did his fair share of taking out Burgoyne's officers. But ... I don't think it was because they were redcoats. The man despises anyone in authority. And if he _is_ being paid to kill you, he's not the sort to consider that that buys any other loyalty to the British. He can't be trusted, not by either side."

Washington's brow quirked, but he didn't reply directly other than to thank them for their concern. As he waved them out, he said he'd bear their warning in mind.

* * *

In the second week of November, while Simon and Joel made their way to observe the action around Fort Mercer, Jim, and even Blair, heard what sounded like continuous rolling thunder long before they crested the last hill and looked down on the Delaware River and Fort Mifflin. Staggered by the vision below them, they stumbled to a halt, gaping speechlessly in appalled horror.

Fort Mifflin, constructed on an island in the middle of the river, was completely surrounded. The tall masts of innumerable warships filled the river, a forest of naked spires, and the ships pressed so closely together that a man could walk their decks in a nearly continuous circle around the American fort and never see the water beneath his feet. Smoke, like filthy fog, whirled thickly over the river valley and cannon belched fire from the ships like angry, vicious dragons, their roar never abating. Even as far away as they were, they could feel the earth tremble beneath their feet as thousands upon thousands of cannon balls screamed through the air before smashing into Fort Mifflin, exploding with blasts that echoed and re-echoed up and down the valley ... and, above the low-throated blasts, distant guttural screams rent the air. Cannon from the Fort answered the fire, rumbling out their own challenge and hitting their marks - they could scarcely miss. The shattered hulks of half-sunken ships littered the shallows; masts snapped like matchsticks or tilting drunkenly bore mute testament to their marksmanship. The stench of gunpowder on the wind was choking, and Jim had to cover his nose with his hands to ease his breathing, even as he winced against the bombardment of sound that battered his ears.

They'd heard that Mifflin had been bombarded on a regular basis since the middle of October but, seeing it, hearing it, they could scarcely believe the Fort was still standing or that there were men still alive in that hell-hole, let alone still fighting back. Jim narrowed his gaze and focused in on the Fort. Shaking his head, he muttered in awe, "My God, they're scrambling to rebuild walls as quickly as they're blasted apart. I can't believe they're still hanging on, that they haven't given up. This ... this is too much. Too much."

Blair blinked, shook off the shock, and then hastily pulled a spy glass he'd scavenged from the battlefield of Freeman's Farm from his pack. Focusing on the interior of the Fort, he swept the pock-marked, blasted earth littered with sprawled, burned and bloodily mutilated bodies, and tracked the walking wounded - men suffering grievous burns and leaking blood from nasty wounds \- who struggled with pitiful determination to fight on. His gut twisted with nausea and bile burned the back of his throat, so that he had to swallow hard to keep from retching. "There's no place of shelter ... they're caught like rats," he rasped, horrified. "Jim ... man, so many bodies. More than half of them look dead." Lowering the instrument, feeling utterly sick, he was no longer certain he wanted to see all that Jim could see. Sometimes, sometimes, not seeing was a mercy. "There's gotta be over two hundred dead down there."

"They can't last without support, immediate support," Jim grated harshly. Grabbing Blair's arm, he started back the way they'd come, racing to report the carnage to Washington and bring back help - though he feared it was already too late.

But Washington and the Army weren't where they'd left them. Howe had sent columns out to chase the Fox relentlessly. They lost precious days evading British patrols and scouring the thickly forested hills before they finally tracked Washington down. Immediately, the General mobilized his forces and led off at a punishing pace.

But the Army only made it to a vantage point northwest of the Fort, on the New Jersey side of the river, close enough to see the devastation, to be sickened by it, but too far away to provide any relief. The cannon of Fort Mifflin had fallen silent - they had clearly run out of munitions and could only endure until the sun finally set. Pale with grief for the suffering of the men below him, Washington watched grimly for a long, long time. And then he turned to Jim and Blair and said hoarsely, "When the sun goes down and the bombardment ends for the day, go down and tell them this battle is over; guide them back here. They are to burn whatever cannot be brought out of the Fort, leaving nothing for the British. They've fought valiantly, with incredible heroism, but it's time to end this ... this slaughter."

* * *

Jim called for Simon and Joel to join them and, together, they slipped down through the forests to the shoreline, keeping in the shadows of the ancient trees. As dusk fell, they set out in one longboat, trailing two others they'd tied bow to stern behind them. In near silence, mindful of the dark gunboats that loomed over them, they paddled across the river to the night-shrouded wharf of the Fort. Moving with the stealth of hungry wolves, they loped silently up to the closed and barred gate, and quietly called the password. A side door cut into the gate creaked open and a man with skin slick with blood and ash granted them entry. Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Smith was so exhausted and so abject in his relief that it was over that he couldn't speak when he received the orders to withdraw before he'd been forced to finally order a retreat. He turned away sharply, one hand swiping at his eyes to hide tears he couldn't constrain, took a shuddering breath and nodded. And then he sent word around the fort to fire all that was left, including their dead. Under cover of darkness, the flames within the Fort distracting the enemy who believed them to be trapped inside, the two hundred wounded survivors limped down to the dock and were assisted into the longboats. One by one, the three silent vessels skimmed back across the river, bearing Smith and his men away from hell.

After holding on for seven weeks and, with Fort Mifflin, successfully throttling the British supply lines, Fort Mercer was the last remaining obstruction to the free flow of goods and supplies up the Delaware to Philadelphia. But, without the guns of Mifflin, their position had become untenable. Five days later, with Cornwallis on the march toward them and British cannonballs bombarding them, Colonel Greene, with General Greene's concurrence, gave up the hopeless task of defending Fort Mercer against the combined onslaught of the British navy and army. As they withdrew, he had his men burn to the ground the sturdy Fort they'd built only months before. On their way to join Washington, they also evacuated and burned the last remaining American ships on the river, to keep them from falling into British hands.

* * *

Howe was now free to turn all his attention upon hunting down Washington. If he couldn't defeat the Patriots, he wanted to at least drive them far enough away from Philadelphia that his men could forage without fear throughout the surrounding countryside during the fast-coming winter. But his long patience was at an end; he'd reached the stage where he wanted badly to defeat them summarily. Burgoyne's surrender had made his victory in taking Philadelphia hollow, very hollow; he'd already submitted his resignation to Parliament and, though it had not yet been accepted, he well knew that he would soon be recalled in disgrace. It was time to end this war, if he could. He outnumbered Washington by nearly four thousand troops and his army was once again well supplied. He called in his subordinate commanders and they began to develop their plan of attack.

* * *

Howe wasn't the only one spoiling for a fight. Washington was well aware of the criticisms circulating after the fall of Philadelphia. Congress, having scrambled out of the capital, was now in an exile of sorts and they deeply resented the panic they'd felt as the British had closed in upon them. Many lauded the exceptional General Gates who had won such a dramatic victory over the British at Saratoga, and agitated to have him placed in command of the Continental Army. For the most part, Washington ignored the rumours of his imminent replacement, leaving the politics to those who supported him. The General's attention was firmly focused on the enemy and he wanted badly to take Howe on in battle.

Immediately after Fort Mercer fell, anxious to assess the situation for himself and believing it could be possible to take the war to the Howe, Washington rode with Jim and Blair to scout the fortifications the British had built around Philadelphia. But what he saw, as Ellison and Sandburg eluded British patrols and guided him carefully from one secure viewpoint to another, was badly discouraging. An attack would be suicidal. Sorely frustrated, leaving Ellison and Sandburg to keep watch on the enemy, he returned to Whitemarsh where the Army had entrenched on the high ground behind stout fortifications.

For more than two weeks, hard as they tried, Jim and Blair were unable to get close enough to the city, without risking capture by the redcoats that kept a constant vigil around the perimeter, for Jim to get a clear bead on Howe's headquarters. Day after day, he struggled to sift through the myriad voices until he finally shuddered and vomited with the chaos and pain of the relentless sounds cascading into his mind. Alarmed, Blair called a halt to it all; pulling him back, insisting he rest, Sandburg pushed him toward the rudimentary and nearly invisible lean-to they'd constructed as their 'home base'.

"Damn it," Jim growled, resisting and resenting the solicitude even though the monster headache that throbbed mercilessly behind his eyes left his gut roiling with persistent nausea. "I can tell something's going on down there. I just can't tell what. I ... I get so close ...."

"Okay, okay, give it a rest already," Blair cajoled, his hands up in self defence. When Jim just glared at him and wheeled away, Sandburg built a small, nearly smokeless fire under low hanging boughs that would disperse whatever fumes did rise from the flames. Swiftly, he brought water to boil and set herbs to steep. Feeling the tension as much as his partner did, though he knew he wasn't suffering the same headache that had Jim's brow furrowed and his shoulders stiffly hunched, Blair inhaled the steam and held his breath, letting the heat and the aromas calm him. When the potion had cooled sufficiently, he carefully poured the clear liquid into a small tin cup and held it out to his friend. "Here, drink this. It will help."

"Help what?" Jim demanded heatedly. "Help me hear what the hell is going on down there? Help me see more clearly so I can be of some use here?"

"Help kill the headache and settle your stomach," he replied calmly, struggling not to rise to the baiting. "Stop being a jackass and drink it."

"Damn it, Chief -"

"I don't want to hear it, man," Blair broke in angrily, his voice cutting like steel. The leash on his own impatience and sense of impotence slipping badly, he snarled, "This is why you keep me around, right? To help you? So let me help you. Drink it."

Shocked by the icy anger, Jim blinked and gaped at his partner. Blair rarely lost his calm, most especially when things were tense. Distractedly, he took the cup and sipped at it and then he hunkered down across the fire. "What's up, Chief?" he asked. "What's got _you_ so riled?"

Sitting back on his heels, shivering, Blair blew on his nearly frozen fingers to warm them, and then raked back his hair before he shoved his hands into his armpits. "I'm cold and I'm tired and I'm sick to death of watching you torture yourself hour after hour every damned day until you literally make yourself sick," he muttered irritably, his gaze on the fire.

But then he lifted his eyes, and Jim could see they were dark with concern for him and so nakedly vulnerable with the helplessness Blair felt that he had to look away. His lips tightened, and then he sighed. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, "I'm just doing my job. That's all."

"No, it's _not_ your job to try so damned hard that ... that you throw up from the pain of focusing too long and too deeply on something that's impossible even for you to do," Blair argued. "And I'm clearly not doing my job or this wouldn't be so damned difficult." He took a deep breath, then, obviously trying to rein in his emotions and again held up his hands for peace between them. "Look, yelling at you doesn't help, I know that. But there must be something I could be doing besides crouching beside you and keeping you grounded. God, talk about being useless."

"Chief, it's not your fault if I can't get a handle on what's going on in town," Jim protested.

Blair shook his head and poured a second mug of the tea. Clasping both hands around the metal cup, desperate for its warmth, he stared into its depths and frowned. "What makes you so sure something's going down?" he asked, puzzled.

Jim took another sip of the herbal potion and was grateful that it did settle his stomach and mute his headache. Scratching his cheek, he grimaced. "I don't know. It's just an impression."

"Yeah, but something must've triggered it," Blair insisted, his gaze now searching Jim's face. He bit his lip and then suggested hesitantly, "Look, I'd like to try something that might help you to remember what you noticed but didn't quite register, if you know what I mean."

"I don't have a clue what you mean," Jim replied wearily. "But, sure, if you've got an idea, go for it. God knows, I don't know what else to do."

Blair took a gulp of tea as if to fortify himself, and then he set the battered cup on the ground. He rubbed his mouth and then held out his hands, palms up. "Okay. I want you to just relax. Close your eyes and take deep, slow breaths. Can you do that?"

Shrugging, Jim nodded and got comfortably settled on the ground. Clasping his hands loosely around his upraised knees, he dutifully closed his eyes and took deep, slow breaths. After a few moments, he felt Blair's light touch on his back, and his partner spoke very softly, his voice low and soothing, "Okay, that's good, that's good. Keep breathing deeply. I want you to just listen to the sound of my voice and the wind skimming through the frozen grass ... not the creaking of the tree branches - filter those sounds out. Just the wind in the grass. When all you hear is the whisper of the grass and my voice, nod."

It took awhile before Jim was able to let go of the cacophony of noise that still reverberated in his skull, and only hear the subtle rustling of the grass, but he finally nodded. By then, he was feeling deeply relaxed, almost as if he was floating or was on the edge of sleep.

"Good, Jim," Blair's rich voice commended him, his friend's breath warm on his cheek. "Now, still listen to the grass and the wind, but let your mind skim over the day, just lightly ...."

When he jerked and frowned, Blair began rubbing slow circles on his back to sooth him further. "Shh ... just lightly. The sounds are far away and can't overwhelm you. But you are aware of them, aware of people moving and talking. Someone's saying something ... something about ... what is it, Jim? What are they saying that catches your attention? That tells you something - something important - is happening?"

Gradually, he relaxed fully again and let his mind simply drift from one memory to another, not forcing them, not straining or struggling, just drifting ....

And then he jerked and sat up. "That's it!" he exclaimed, turning to face Blair, a wide smile of incredulity on his face. "You did it!"

"What?" Blair asked, bemused.

"I remembered! In the middle of all that hubbub of noise, someone ordered that six days of rations be requisitioned immediately for eight thousand troops!"

Blair's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "Oh, wow," he gasped. "They're getting ready to march on Washington, maybe tonight."

"That's exactly what they're doing," Jim agreed as he surged to his feet and held out a hand to haul Blair upright. "We gotta make tracks."

Swiftly, they doused the fire and packed up their gear. By the time the sun settled below the horizon, they were already moving through the forest at a ground-eating pace that they would sustain through the night. When it got too dark for him to see where he was going, Blair did as he'd learned over a year ago to do in order to keep running without hesitation though he might as well be blind. He hooked a hand in Jim's belt and, keeping a half pace to the side, he ran on, trusting Jim to keep him safe.

* * *

When Howe and his army stealthily arrived at Chestnut Hill in the predawn hours, expecting to surprise Washington just as the wily Fox had surprised Trenton nearly a year before, he was sorely disappointed to find the encampment already wide awake and waiting for him. He was even more displeased when his scouts reported that the American force was much stronger than he'd anticipated - Gates had evidently finally arrived with his contingent from the north, swelling the patriot numbers to more than fifteen thousand, twice his own complement. However his plans had been leaked, it was abundantly clear that he had to abandon his hopes for a quick, decisive attack that would destroy the Continental Army.

Washington boldly sent out troops in the first foray, and the skirmish was sharp and short. The Americans withdrew behind their lines, and Howe shifted his forces, looking for a weakness that he could capitalize upon. But the Americans shifted with him and he could find no chink in their defences.

For three days, in growing frustration, he moved his army back and forth though he remained about a mile away, out of range of the rebels' cannon.

Washington was equally frustrated, for he badly wanted to engage the British. But ... though he had the numbers, they were short of ammunition. And his troops, surly and spoiling for a fight after not having been paid since late summer, were in as dire shape as they'd been the winter before. The much appreciated uniforms from the anonymous French benefactor were now tattered, filthy rags and many of the men were nearly naked. Their boots were so rotten that feet were rubbed raw and bleeding, leaving scarlet footprints in the snow. So, he used his numbers to bluff, relentlessly moving his regiments like chess pieces, constantly facing the British with an enemy the redcoats believed stronger than they were.

Finally, utterly furious to be thwarted, Howe ordered his army back to Philadelphia. In retribution for having been denied satisfaction, he also ordered that every building, every home and storehouse, every barn and shed, in every farm, town and village they passed, be put to the torch. The resulting destruction was wanton and devastating. For a full night, the dark sky was licked by flames and billowing clouds of smoke blotted out the stars. The whimpers and wails of children and the aged and infirm who wept inconsolably to have lost all they had were haunting and heartwrenching. Even those still loyal to the King were shocked and appalled by the ruthless and merciless annihilation of property.

High on a hillside, his gaze following the rampaging retreat, Jim's expression was grim with anger and he clenched his jaw in frustrated helplessness to stop the cruelty. "Howe's a fool," he grated. "Worse than a baby having a tantrum. Whatever support he might ever have had, it's gone now. There'll be nobody between here and Philadelphia that will give a damn if he and every last one of his men starve to death this winter."

His eyes narrowed against the glare of the fires that lit the night as far as he could see, Blair nodded dully. "Some victory, huh?" he rasped bitterly. "Even when we win, the people lose." Turning away, unable to watch any longer, he tugged on Jim's arm. "C'mon. We've hardly slept for four days. I'm cold and pissed off and I've had enough, at least for tonight."

Jim blew a long breath and reluctantly nodded. There was nothing they could do and they were both just about dead on their feet. He jogged a few paces to catch up with his friend and dropped an arm around Blair's shoulders. As if he needed the warmth, the affirmation of human good will, Blair's arm lifted to clasp him around the waist and draw him close as they ambled deep into the shadows, away from the flames, away from the horror and utter waste of war. With the economy of effort borne of repeated practice, they soon constructed a sturdy shelter of pine boughs, crawled inside and wrapped themselves in their bearskin. Curled together, secure against the cold, they let sleep draw them away and give them respite, however briefly, from the madness and exhaustion, and what increasingly felt like the futility of a war of attrition that had no end in sight.

* * *

The next day, Washington sent them back to continue to keep watch on Howe, while the Continental Army remained secure behind their fortifications on the high ground of Whitemarsh. The General needed to know if Howe was finished for the winter before he risked moving his men away from relative safety to another location for the winter.

The weather had turned cold and bitter, the sky above crystal clear. They kept a steady pace over the frozen ground, a pace that should have warmed them but, though his partner didn't complain, Jim was aware that Blair was shivering, his face pinched and wan with weariness. Calling a brief halt, he quickly untied his blanket from his pack and draped it around Blair's shoulders. "Not much," he muttered, but it might help. Can't have you getting sick on me."

Having grown used to Jim's solicitude over the past months, Blair no longer fought the small kindnesses, accepting them for the care and concern they represented and not rebelling in a need to prove he didn't need special consideration. "Thanks," he said, his teeth chattering. "I'm okay, just tired."

"That's a relief," Jim teased as he tugged Blair's coonskin cap down more firmly over his ears. "Wouldn't want to have to carry your sorry ass back to camp."

Snickering softly, clutching the blanket around his shoulders, Blair shook his head and resumed the steady march through the barren countryside toward Philadelphia. All day long, they passed the blackened and occasionally still smoldering ruins that marked Howe's route of retreat. The devastation, the utter silence, bore down upon them - they had no idea where all the people who'd once lived in those ashes had gone, but they'd scattered like leaves before the winter's wind.

"He's decided this is a real war," Blair sighed, staring at a burned-out homestead with an expression of painful sorrow. "Last year, Howe was playing with us, trying to bully and intimidate us, but he left the civilians pretty much alone. Now he's letting everyone know that the gloves are off."

Grimly, Jim nodded. "He probably hopes that the fear and outrage of the population will provoke them to demand Washington's surrender, if only so they don't have to live in constant fear."

"It's not a good idea to take, to destroy, everything a person has," Blair murmured distantly as he trudged along, his leather foot coverings squeaking on the crisp snow. "When there's nothing left to lose, the ones who survive grow strong with stubborn determination, and they'll fight back out of desperation and a desire for revenge. You were right last night. This wanton retribution in retaliation for rebellion won't change the thinking of the patriots - they'll just be even more certain that they were right about wanting to be free of the British overlords ... but it will alienate the Loyalists. If Howe keeps up like this, he'll do more to unite the people of this country against him than we could ever have done on our own. It's ironic, in a really terrible way."

"Man has been conquering other men since time began, Chief - just like this, through the use of brutish power," Jim replied. "Howe is just following a tried and true formula."

Blair shook his head. "You can't conquer a people, Jim," he said with a sigh, his gaze roaming the countryside. "You can force them to submit, if you have the power and can stand watch over them to keep them in line. But they'll remember the atrocities, and they'll resent the domination. And they'll teach their children to remember, and to hate. Might take generations, but they'll eventually turn and fight back. War ... war is expedient, that's all. It doesn't really win anything in the long run. People have to choose to support one another, to be a community, not just a collection of individuals guided by their own self interest. That's what we're fighting for, isn't it? Our right to choose the rules we'll live by?"

"Yeah, I guess when you get right down to it, that's exactly what it's all about," Jim agreed. "But it's a new idea, this ... this conviction that we should have that freedom. Comes from being in a wide open new world, I guess."

"No, actually, it's not a new idea," Blair responded earnestly, looking up at his friend. "The real irony about all this is that the British are reaping what they sowed. For centuries, they've had the freedom of their own Parliament - they rejected the divine authority of kings a long, long time ago. And when they seeded this land with their people, they seeded their ideas and their beliefs, too. We're their sons and daughters, and we've grown up to want and expect the same freedoms they already enjoy. Only they don't get that we've grown up. They still want to be ... parents, I guess. Still want to tell us what's good for us, what we can and can't do." Waving at more blackened remains of what had been a farmstead, he sighed. "And, like many parents, they punish us with increasing vigor when we fail to comply with their wishes. Maybe if Howe, if the British could see it that way, they'd understand that this strategy just isn't going to work. When kids get big enough, they fight back, and then they leave for good."

Jim's brows quirked and his pursed his lips as he considered the simple analogy that summed up the past more than year's struggle - and he also noticed that when Blair got caught up in his ideas, he didn't seem to feel the cold as badly. Searching for a way to keep the conversation going, he reflected, "What's really strange is that King Louis finally agreed to support us. He rules as a tyrant in his own country ... why would he risk supporting a people who want complete freedom from their own king?"

Snorting, Blair laughed humourlessly. "Because hate blinds a person to reason," he stated bluntly. "He hates the British so much and figures we might be of use in defeating an old enemy; his hatred has stifled his common sense. Good thing ... for us. But it might cost him very dearly in ways he'd never imagine in the long run."

* * *

When they got back to the hills overlooking Philadelphia, they set up their camp, laid out some snares to hopefully catch their dinner, and then they found a good vantage point and hunkered down.

"Let's do this a little differently this time, okay?" Blair suggested. "Instead of straining to hear so finely that you damned near kill yourself, how about you just cast out your senses and, I don't know, just absorb it all. Later, we can try the same thing we did before - you know, sitting back, relaxing, and letting your mind play over the memories of what you heard, filtering out what's meaningful and allowing the rest to slide away."

Happy to imagine he might manage this round of surveillance without the grinding headaches and nausea, Jim readily agreed to give it a try. As the day wore on, they shifted position frequently, as much to move and warm themselves up as to improve his chances of hearing more. A couple times, he nearly slipped into the fog of over-concentrating on sounds, but Blair's touch and low voice called him back before he went over the edge. When the sun began to set, Blair decided it was time to call it a day, and he was glad because even without consciously striving to sort through all the noise, his head was beginning to ache with the sheer chaos of sound.

Their snares had fulfilled their function, and they dined on fresh rabbit. After they'd eaten, Blair led him back to the odd relaxed state he remembered from the last time he'd listened only to the soft rustle of wind and his partner's voice. But, after a while, he frowned and shook his head, breaking off the exercise.

"I'm not getting anything, nothing," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"What's 'nothing'?" Blair asked. "I mean, you're getting phrases, right? Stuff from all over town? What do you remember?"

Shrugging, Jim sighed and scratched his cheek. "Well, you know, people shopping, scolding their kids, making dinner plans, talking about ordinary stuff. Nothing."

Sitting back on his haunches, Sandburg frowned in thought. "Maybe ... because that's all there is to hear."

"Huh?"

"Well, if Howe has decided that's it for the year, then, well, nobody would be talking about the next assault, right? They'd be settling down for the winter."

Jim's gaze drifted away and then he nodded slowly. "You could be right. It was around this time last year that he returned to Staten Island." Shrugging, he looked back at his friend. "Guess we give it a couple of days and if that's all there is, then we can report back to Washington."

"Oh, joy," Blair replied with a sardonic grin. "We get to march some more to some godforsaken place and build a camp from scratch."

"War is hell, Chief," Jim rejoined, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Yeah, ain't it just," his friend agreed, rolling his eyes.

For awhile, they sat in companionable silence. There was only the crackle of the small fire and the dry rattle of the wind in the barren branches of the trees around them. And then Blair shivered. As if to distract himself from the cold, he reflected, "You know, you're doing really, really well with managing your senses. You hardly have any trouble anymore."

"Nearly lost it out there a couple times today," Jim admitted then, with a diffident shrug as he poked a stick at the fire to stir up the coals and generate a bit more heat. "You pulled me out before I went too far."

Blair bit his lip and looked out at the night. "Can you feel it? When you start to slip away? Before I bring you back?" he asked, and then turned to Jim, waiting for his answer.

Thinking back, he nodded slowly. "I think so," he replied hesitantly. "I mean, I was sort of aware but I don't know if it's because I knew I was losing it or because I realized I was losing it when you pulled me back."

Blair crossed his arms, as if hugging himself against the cold, and his gaze again drifted away. "We need to work on that," he murmured.

"Well, it's not a big problem," Jim said, unconcerned. "If I lose it, you're there to pull me back."

Nodding slowly, Blair agreed. "Most of the time. But ... if we're under attack and I'm shooting at the bad guys while you're trying to get a grip on what's going on and what our options are, we can't afford you to get lost when I'm not paying attention."

Grimacing, Jim had to agree that made sense. "This means more tests, doesn't it?" he groused.

With a wan and regretful smile, Blair looked up into his eyes. "Yeah, Jim, sorry, man. More tests."

* * *

By noon of their second day, when Jim picked up nothing more than the usual 'nothing', along with an increasing number of whines about hangovers, they decided to call it quits and head back to Whitemarsh.

Washington, anxious to get the Army moved into winter quarters, welcomed their report and immediately ordered Greene, Gates, Sullivan and Arnold to get their contingents ready to move out the next day, the eleventh of December. When the men formed up into their divisions just after dawn, they were a sorry sight. Shivering, blue with cold, clutching blankets around their shoulders, half-naked and ill-shod, they reminded Jim and Blair all too clearly of the wretched march to Trenton. Aside from the fact that they'd be marching during the day and there wasn't a blizzard, this march looked like it was going to be just about as bad.

The General gave the order to Sullivan to lead off, and signaled Jim that he and Blair should go with him to ensure there were no unpleasant surprises along the route. Gates followed with his men, and then Washington left with Greene's contingent, Arnold bringing up the rear with the Marquis de Lafayette, who had only recently been given command of his own light infantry. The lilt of fifes and the rat-a-tat-tat of the snare drums set the beat, and a flag bearer proudly carried the new flag that had been first flown earlier that summer in the battles to safeguard Forts Stanwix and Schuyler.

The Continental Army was on its way to set up winter quarters on the south side of the Schuylkill River, twenty miles from Philadelphia, in Valley Forge.

Though they'd gotten underway briskly enough, the men almost glad to be marching to keep warm, despite the misery of bleeding and frozen feet and the bitter chill, they lacked the energy to sustain a brisk pace over the more than fifteen miles of rough terrain. And then it started to snow. After hours of painful plodding, they finally neared their goal. Sullivan had just moved his division across the bridge across the Sckuylkill River at Matson's Ford, and Gates' column was half way over, when Jim whirled around and stared down along the broad waterway that had more curves than a serpent. Aware that something potentially serious had caught his friend's attention, watching Jim peer through the forest of trees and tilt his head, listening intently, Blair moved closer to touch his back and ground him. A moment later, Jim stiffened in alarm, and turned to urgently wave at the men approaching the bridge to halt on the far side. "Move it!" he yelled then at Gates. "The British are just around the far bend and coming fast! Get back across the bridge!"

Not known to make fast decisions, Gates hesitated, uncertain whether to run or fight. Washington's mount clattered across the wooden bridge and he demanded of Jim, "How many?"

Swallowing, Jim looked back toward the distant bend that hid the approaching redcoats from sight. "I don't know, exactly, General," he replied, "but thousands. Thousands." Lifting his gaze to Washington's, he said with abject regret, "I'm sorry, sir. They seemed entrenched in Philadelphia."

Waving the apology away, Washington said, "Could be a large foraging party, not a deliberate attack." Turning to Gates, and waving Sullivan forward, he ordered, "Get the men back across _immediately_. There's no time to delay."

Word spread fast that the British were bearing down upon them, and nearly four thousand men hurried to swiftly move in orderly, if tightly pressed, ranks back over the bridge to the north side of the river. Before they were all across, Washington ordered a fire be lit and torches prepared. On the south side, Blair quickly gathered deadfall and struck a spark from his flint, nursing the flame and sheltering it from the wind, while Jim gathered up more broken branches.

Cornwallis appeared around the far bend of the river, leading more than three thousand soldiers. For just a moment, he came to a dead stop, evidently astonished to see Washington and his entire army so close at hand. And then he yelled and the British surged toward the bridge. The men remaining to cross lunged forward, scrambling to get to safety on the other side. Jim and Blair were the last men across, flinging torches on the kindling that Jim had hastily scattered on the bridge. Turning, they raced over the wooden planks and, as soon as they cleared the decking, Washington set fire to that end as well. Officers shouted and the men swiftly strung out along the river, dropping to one knee and leveling their weapons. Everyone held their breath as they waited to see if the old bridge would catch or if the flames would sputter and die. Cornwallis' leading ranks were very nearly there when the wind caught the fire with a mighty whoosh, and the entire bridge danced with flames that drove the British back.

Frustrated, Cornwallis glared across the half-frozen river, the ice too thin to bear weight, the water too deep and cold to ford. On his order, his soldiers also formed a line along the bank, dropped to one knee and leveled their weapons. One volley followed another, but the river was too wide and the shots fell short. Cornwallis had no cannon, and was stymied. Washington smiled coolly and lifted his fingers to the brim of his cap in a taunting salute, and then waved his men back into their columns. While Cornwallis stood, helpless to stop them, they formed up and began the march back to their fortified camp on the hill. The British general cursed and disgustedly ordered his men to continue foraging along the river though, in truth, as he had less than four thousand men and Washington's army numbered eleven thousand, and the British did not know how short of ammunition the patriots were, Cornwallis may have counted himself lucky to have escaped a direct confrontation without compromising his honour.

* * *

It was another week before Washington determined to make the second march to Valley Forge. This time they made it without incident, though the weather was more bitter, the cold terrible, and the bloody tracks they left in the snow made their trail easy to follow. Exhausted, many of the men more than half frozen, they plodded into the valley and gazed about numbly. Well forested, easily defensible, close enough to Philadelphia to keep an eye on the British, the location Washington had chosen made sound strategic sense. But there was nothing but a handful of farmhouses in the entire length of the valley. Wind whistled down from the hills, bearing the scent of snow, and the men bit their chapped lips to keep them from trembling.

Fires were lit, to warm them, and tents were struck for shelter, though they were wholly inadequate against the chill and there weren't enough of them to house all the men. But that's all they had until they cut down the trees, stripped the branches and hauled them into place to build their quarters and hospitals. There wasn't even any straw to strew upon the ground to provide some insulation against the frozen earth.

Immediately, work crews were established and axes and saws distributed, for there was no time to rest after the grueling march; their urgent need for shelter was too great. Hunting and foraging parties were formed, for there was no food readily at hand.

The next brutal days made the memories of the hideous march to Trenton seem moderately pleasant in comparison to the suffering they now endured. The morning after their arrival, nearly four thousand, more than a third of the Army, were too sick to work or forage. Half-clothed, starving men huddled close to the fires, hungry for the warmth, or were carried into tents to lie upon blankets layered over the frozen earth. Befuddled by the cold, utterly miserable, the numbness of frozen feet and legs at first passed unnoticed, until the flesh blackened with rot, and then the surgeons hastened to amputate the ruined limbs, hoping to at least save lives. But ... without adequate shelter or nourishment, most perished. Hundreds froze to death in their sleep before the crude shelters could be constructed. Starvation hung like a specter over them all.

By Christmas, at least the most ill were housed in over-crowded, cold and damp hospitals built as adjunct buildings to each brigade and, by January, the rest were under cover in severely cramped conditions, but it was better than lying on the icy ground, exposed to the wind and snow. The hunting parties did their best, but there just wasn't enough game in the area to bring in the nearly thirty-five thousand pounds of meat that were needed to fulfill minimum ration requirements for more than twelve thousand men and their camp followers every single day. If much needed supply wagons hadn't arrived in early January, many, many more would have died of starvation.

They endured.

But their misery was only beginning. Disease flourished in the over-crowded barracks, feeding upon their weakened state and poor hygiene until the hospitals couldn't begin to contain the numbers who were sorely ill. Typhoid and dysentery, typhus and pneumonia erupted all over the camp; cholera struck, and consumption - a disease so common that as many as twenty percent of the general colonial population died of it - plagued them. The needs of the ill far outstripped the capacity of the medical staff to care for them, even with the devoted help of the camp followers, all fondly called Molly Pitcher, for the women regularly braved enemy fire to bring them water and ammunition during battles. Now those same women braved the danger of disease. Soldiers that were still able-bodied and were so inclined also volunteered to help where they could, whether that be spooning gruel into men who were barely conscious, assisting weak men to the latrines or cleaning up after those who didn't make it that far, changing dressing on putrid wounds and stumps, or carting out the dead to the pyres that had become a routine evening ritual of mourning.

But the majority of men simply huddled under blankets, crowded together for warmth in the barracks, drank, sang songs and told tall tales to while away the endless of hours of grinding boredom - and to deny their fears that they might be the next to succumb to some disgusting, malodorous, deadly disease. Some wandered about more than half-drunk all the time, but where they found their evidently limitless supply of grog was something of a mystery. It was suspected that the stuff got smuggled into the camp, a constant frustration for officers who dearly wished it was as easy to keep up a steady stream of food and decent clothing, let alone medical supplies.

The arrival of the supply train freed Jim, Blair, Simon and Joel from their hunting duties, at least for as long as the supplies lasted, so they were among those that volunteered to help their comrades however they could. Scorning the drafty barracks that were normally filled with smoke from the fires kept burning in rudimentary stoves to stave off the cold, they had built their own shelters of pine boughs, just did when they were on the trail, as had Simon and Joel. When the snow came and stayed, the little huts were far warmer and snugger than the hastily constructed, drafty buildings and, while they didn't have a surfeit of space, nor were they crammed like sardines in a can. Over time, they'd all become as adept at foraging for wild edible roots as Blair was and their private snares caught sufficient rabbits, so they ate better than most. As a result, they were all in better shape than the majority of the men, if not exactly living in the lap of luxury.

However, even so, Sandburg thought a few extra precautions to sustain their good health were warranted given the magnitude and virulence of the diseases they'd be contending with every day and half of every night. "We need more wild onions in our diet ... and garlic, if we can ever get our hands on any," he told them earnestly.

Jim curled his lip and rolled his eyes. "Oh, c'mon, the place doesn't reek enough that we have to add onion breath to the air we breathe? Give me a break, Chief."

"I'm serious, Jim," Blair retorted. "Sure, we're all in reasonably good shape, but that can change pretty damned fast. Not only do we need to get this stuff into our diets, I've got some herbs to brew for tea that we _have_ to drink at least twice a day to strengthen our resistance to illness. In fact," he went on, "I've just finished steeping some." Deftly, he filled four mugs from their shared cookpot over the fire between their huts.

Simon and Joel, used to the idea of homegrown remedies from their days as slaves, when the old grannies were the only doctors they had, willingly accepted their cups of steaming liquid, and barely blinked at the pungent aroma that assailed them. But Jim crinkled his nose, held up his hands, palms out and hastily backed away, shaking his head. "No way," he insisted. "Just the smell of that concoction is enough to either knock me out or make me puke or both."

"Jim -" Blair began, his tone half-cajoling, half-insisting, but Ellison cut him off sharply.

"I said 'no', and I meant 'no'. I never get sick and I don't need whatever that stuff is," he barked. When Blair's face fell at his vehemence, he tried to soften his refusal by offering more than stubbornness to his argument. "Look, you know how I can react to stuff I'm not used to."

"There's nothing in this that will hurt you," Sandburg insisted, still holding out the cup.

"I said 'no'," he repeated, this time his tone low and cold.

Blair's gaze narrowed angrily. "Fine," he snapped, settling back to drink from the cup himself. "Don't come whining to me when you're sick as a dog."

"You know, Jim," Joel tried to mediate, "it's not all that bad. The taste kinda grows on you." But he subsided when all he got for his effort was an icy hard glare. Shrugging, he saluted Blair with his mug and drained it dry.

* * *

A week later, Jim woke feeling like the proverbial piece of shit. His throat was raw, his chest felt tight, and he knew he was running a low grade fever. But he was damned if he was going to admit it. It was just a cold, a few sniffles, maybe, and he'd be fine. Still, after his rigid stance a few days before, the fact that he felt sick at all pissed him off. No way did he want to let his partner know he wasn't feeling all that great, or Blair would be crowing and pushing more of that foul-smelling junk under his nose. Just the thought of it made his stomach do flip-flops. So, he was irritable and grouchy that morning, scarcely speaking to any of them before he lumbered off to his assigned brigade hospital for nursemaid duty.

Blair frowned as he watched him go. "I think he's sick," he muttered with concern.

Simon followed his gaze and shrugged. "He probably just got up on the wrong side of the bearskin. Don't worry about it."

Though he looked about to argue the fact, instead, Blair took a breath and nodded. "You're likely right," he allowed. They finished their morning dose of his potion and then they all hurried through the freezing dawn to the hospitals they were assigned to.

The sun was already done and the day growing dark when Blair trudged wearily back to their hut. The endless daily grind of caring for such sick men was more exhausting than a week's worth of hiking and tracking but, worse, was having to witness their suffering and not be able to do much to alleviate it. The doctors were no more interested than Jim was in hearing about his ideas for fever reduction, infection control and pain relief. Hardest of all was watching men he knew die in such abject misery and despair, and then carting their bodies like so much bad meat to the funeral pyre that was lit every sunset. The camp reeked with the smell of burning bodies, and the stench nauseated him.

He was only a few yards from the lean-to when he heard Simon yelling from somewhere behind him, urgently calling him to come quickly. Whirling around, he saw his friend waving at him from the side of the nearest barracks building. Breaking into a lope, he called, "What? What is it?"

"Jim," Simon told him grimly, grabbing his arm to pull him along. "I just found out. He collapsed a few hours ago and he's now a patient in the hospital he was helping out in."

"Oh God," Blair gasped, and then he was running flat-out, having to cross half the camp to get to the right building, barely aware of Simon shouting after him that he'd go and find Joel. He skidded to a stop at the doorway and, yanking the heavy wooden panel open, hurried inside. His gaze raked the long, low, narrow building that had men squashed side by side on blankets on the plank floor, in ranks running up and down along the walls until the filthy floor was scarcely visible; but, cocooned in blankets, one looked very much like another and there were just _so_ many of them. Spotting one of the camp-followers he knew, he hurried over to her and asked breathlessly, "Captain Jim Ellison. I heard he's here. Sick. Where? Where is he?"

"Down at that end, on the left," she pointed and, because she knew they were good friends, she touched his arm and added, "I'm sorry. His fever is really high. He's ... he's really sick."

Swallowing hard, he lightly touched her shoulder in mute gratitude for her help and concern, and then he was hurrying down the narrow aisle that separated the ranks of suffering men, just as Simon and Joel rushed inside.

When he spotted Jim, he froze for a moment, staggered to see his friend so flushed with fever, muttering with inarticulate misery, and splattered with vomit. And then he was furious, at Jim, at the lack of adequate care, at the whole damned situation. Striding forward, he knelt beside his partner and touched Jim's brow, gauging as best he could the strength of the fever.

"God, he looks bad," Joel rasped from behind him.

Nodding his agreement, Blair felt Jim's throat and quickly checked his chest for any sign of rash, relieved when he didn't see any, but that didn't mean his friend wasn't still deadly ill. Jim's breathing was laboured, severely congested, and his blue-tinged fingertips picked and pushed at the scratchy blanket. His eyes were glazed and he didn't seem to be aware of anything that was going on around him. The dried vomit on his shirt and the edge of the blanket reeked nauseatingly. Finished with his cursory examination, he turned to look up at the others. "We need to get him out of here, back to our hut."

One of the medics, made curious by their appearance at what was usually a quiet hour, overheard him. "I'm sorry, but that man is too sick to move. Nor can we risk him spreading whatever he's got to other men in the officers' quarters."

"He doesn't live in the quarters," Blair told him as he stood, ready to do battle, if need be. "We've got a hut up against the treeline. The only person in danger of getting sick around him is me."

"Regardless, regulations state -" the medic began wearily.

"Just listen to me, will you?" Blair cut in. "You've got a whole lot more people in here than you can possibly look after already, and the way things are going, you'll probably have more by morning. The regulations are about ensuring sick people are separated from well people - I can do that. Jim won't be anywhere near the rest of the officers or men. And I've got some experience in caring for sick people, so I can work on lowering his fever and keeping him clean. The rules are for situations where there is no other option, no other choice. But I've got another option. Please," he cajoled as he lifted a hand to gesture at all the sick men around them, and begged, "we both know that just being in here often leads to sick men catching the disease of the guy next to him. Please let me take him out of here." When the medic continued to look intractable, his jaw tightened. "Okay, you want to play it that way, fine. Jim is General Washington's head scout. If it will make you happier, I'll march right over to the General's private quarters and get his personal authority to move Captain Ellison back to his quarters, where he'll be warmer, cleaner, and have constant, personal care. You really want me to do that?"

Throwing up his hands, the medic shook his head. "No, no, this isn't worth troubling the General. But if Captain Ellison dies, it's your responsibility, not mine, and you can break the news to Washington."

"Deal," Blair snapped and gestured to Simon and Joel. "Will you help me get him back to our place?"

"You know we will," Simon rumbled as they moved forward, careful of the semiconscious men on either side of Ellison. Holding the blanket he was laying bundled in as a makeshift stretcher, they pulled the corners taut and lifted him. Blair shrugged out of his fur-lined long vest and draped it over his partner, and then they shuffled out of the hospital and into the cold night.

Conscious that the last thing Jim needed was to get chilled, they hurried as fast as they could back across the camp, and eased him into the small, warm shelter. Blair layered strips of soft leather between him and the bearskin that covered the ground, holding back the cold. And then, with Simon's help, he stripped off Jim's filthy clothing. Over his shoulder, he asked Joel, "Would you fill the cookpot with snow and put it over a fire? I need to wash him off or the stink will just make him sick again." As Joel turned to leave, he called, "Wait, just a minute." Hurriedly, he rummaged in his pack and drew out a pouch. "This is ground willowbark. Would you also put a pot of it on to boil and steep? And I need the snow melted, warm but not hot, okay?"

"You got it," Joel agreed, taking the pouch and quickly moving outside to fulfill his tasks.

"Damn, stupid, stubborn jackass," Blair muttered as he went back to helping Simon undress Jim, and then he moistened a rag with the water in their canteen to carefully sponge Jim's face, neck and chest. "I need some light in here," he said, conscious that he soon wouldn't be able to see anything in the growing darkness and jerking his head at the small pile of thick candles in the corner. Wordlessly, Simon scooped one up and went outside to light it with a brand from the fire.

When he was alone, Blair cupped Jim's hot, stubbled cheek with his hand. "Damn you," he whispered, his voice near to breaking. "If you'd just drunk the damned tea ...." But when his voice cracked, he stopped, swiped at his eyes and pulled himself together. "At least you had the sense not to come whining to me and looking for sympathy, because you know I would have kicked your sorry butt," he groused, but his tone was warm with affection and rough concern. Untying the bedrolls neatly stacked against one wall, he layered the blankets over Jim. And then he went back to rummaging in his pack, to find the rest of the herbs he was going to need. From the sound of Jim's breathing and the swollen nodes in his neck, Blair was thinking it was probably pneumonia, but the evidence of vomiting worried him. He really hoped it wasn't cholera. Or worse, both. But then, it might not have been his vomit. He might have been caught when some poor wretch he was helping earlier had spewed and then, later, been rolled in the filthy, noisome blanket. Or maybe he'd vomited because of the fever's effect on him?

Simon returned with the candle, which he'd stuck in a mug to keep upright, and he handed it to Blair who positioned it carefully close to Jim's head but far enough from both his friend and the pine boughs of the wall to not be a danger.

"He gonna be alright?" Simon asked, hesitantly, reluctant to even voice the possibility that he wouldn't be.

Blair paused in the sorting of his pouches of herbs, and then looked up at his friend. "I hope so," he said bleakly. "But, you know as well as I do that ... that this isn't good."

Simon nodded, and then reached out to grip Blair's shoulder. "If anyone can pull him out of this, it's you," he said firmly.

Giving a bleak smile in return for the vote of confidence, Blair went back to choosing the medicines he needed; mustard, to make a plaster later if it became necessary to break up the congestion in Jim's chest, dried dandelion greens, powdered goldenseal, honeysuckle and forsythia vines which would all help combat infection, more powdered willowbark, for fever and aches, and he set aside sundew, in case he needed it later to give Jim to chew on, to reduce coughing. For the moment, though, he needed Jim to be coughing to get the gunk out of his lungs. Again looking at Simon, who was hovering with an expression that suggested he wished he wasn't so useless, he said, "I'm going to need help."

Immediately, the older man perked up. "All you need to do is ask," he said firmly.

"Okay, well, lots of different things," Blair began. "When you and Joel are out foraging, I really need you to find onions to make into a soup. And I'll need basins of melted snow until his fever breaks. Uh," he paused, thinking, "canteens of fresh water, and I'll need a variety of different teas made with these herbs. If you've got a pot of honey stashed away, I think he'd appreciate it if we sweetened the teas, and the honey is nourishing, if I can't get much else into him for awhile." When Simon nodded, soberly agreeing to it all, he gave him instructions on how long to steep the various greens, sticks and powdered herbs. "We're going to need just about every pot we've got between us," he sighed and pushed his hair back behind his ears. "The potions don't have to be hot, though, so once we've made a batch of anything, we're okay until we need to make more."

"I'll get working on all this," Simon assured him, bending to half-crawl through the low, blanket-covered opening in the wall. Once outside, he popped his head back in to say, "Look, I know it gets crowded in here with all of us inside, so Joel and I will stay close and you just yell if you need anything, okay?"

"That's great, Simon, thanks," Blair assured him. Simon had barely disappeared from view when Joel was edging in with a big pot of tepid water.

"Is this warm enough?" he asked with a worried frown.

Blair dipped in his fingertips and nodded. "It's perfect, just perfect." Joel beamed at the praise and then disappeared to help Simon get the teas prepared.

After rolling up his sleeves, Blair picked up the rag he'd used earlier, and began bathing Jim to fight the too hot fever. He didn't want to think about it, but if this didn't work, he might have to go straight to using snow. But that could be a real shock to the system, so he wouldn't resort to that unless ... well, unless the fever got worse or lasted so long that it could kill his friend before he drowned in the congestion in his lungs.

Jim wasn't completely insensible, but he was delirious and seemed totally unaware of where he was or that he wasn't alone. He whispered and muttered broken phrases and jumbled words, and his hands moved restlessly, pushing the blanket away and scratching at his skin. He winced at normal voices and, when Quinn stumbled by, singing off-key at the top of his lungs, drunk as usual, Jim moaned and tossed his head, as if in severe pain. Outside, Joel and Simon made short work of chasing the man off, and Jim calmed a bit. But the candle also seemed to bother him, because he flinched away from the light and his eyes watered.

"Oh, man," Blair sighed as he tenderly, very gently bathed what he knew was hyper-sensitive skin, "all your senses are out of control, aren't they? And you can't do much about it, can't focus on lowering them, not when you don't know what's going on. I'm sorry, Jim. I'm so sorry this is so hard for you. Bad enough to be so sick." As he bathed his partner, he also smoothed on a slightly greasy balm that he hoped would alleviate the itchiness of dry, dehydrated skin that the fever had evidently already aroused.

Simon began carrying in various pots of the different potions he'd requested, and when he finished the first round of bathing, he pulled a spoon from his pack. Patiently, painstakingly, supporting his partner's head and shoulders in the crook of one arm, he fed Jim the medicines drop by drop, and about half a cup full of fresh water, sometimes massaging Jim's throat gently to get him to swallow.

And then he went back to trying to cool his friend down. Hours passed as he alternated the bathing with getting some of the potions and more water into Jim. Objectively, he knew these first hours, the first few days even, were going to be bad because it took time for the medicines to work and the infection was raging, so the fever was burning way out of control as Jim's body fought back. But Jim was strong and basically healthy, so he had a good chance of fighting off the illness, a really good chance.

But he also knew that pneumonia killed more people than any other disease, more even than consumption. Blair was scared, really scared, that all he could do wouldn't be good enough. Listening to Jim's plaintive muttering didn't help, only made him feel helpless to ease his friend's torment. And it broke his heart to piece together some of what Jim was saying, worrying over ... afraid of. The sensory discomfort was bad enough, but when Jim wept about his mother's leaving and cried out as if he'd just heard she was dead, it broke Blair's heart. And he came close to weeping himself when he realized that Jim was so scared of losing him, that something would happen and Jim wouldn't be there or would fail him somehow. He'd known for a long time that Jim loved him, but not because he'd ever heard the words. Jim showed his feelings in his actions, in his small kindnesses and his blunt scoldings when he was worried. But now, now he was hearing the words, the poignant gratitude Jim felt to have him in his life, the wish Jim had that he could be sure Blair knew how much he was treasured, and the absolute abject fear he'd felt when Alex had shot him ... and when he'd lain unconscious for so many hours in Jim's embrace after that fierce battle up north. "You don't know," Jim kept rasping, over and over, "You don't know ... don't know...."

"I know," Blair assured him, again and again. "I know, Jim. Don't worry. Please, don't worry. I know."

But for all he did, for all the reassurances he offered until he grew hoarse, the fever worsened and Jim slipped deeper into confusion. His breathing grew ever more shallow, rattling in his chest, and faster, faster, until he was panting for breath. Blair propped their packs behind him, to lift his head and shoulders, to help him breathe more easily, but it didn't seem to help at all. Nothing was working. Not the bathing or the willowbark.

And he began to fear he might have to resort to the snow.

It was well after midnight when Jim started to cough chokingly, his hoarse guttural gasping attempts to breathe terrifying. Hastily, Blair turned him on his side and thumped his back, trying to loosen whatever was blocking his airway. "C'mon, Jim, don't do this," he pleaded when his friend's breathing grew even more labored, the choking sounds more desperate. Jim's body was so hot that just touching him, leaning close, pulling him up into a close embrace to help him breathe, left Blair sweating. He was like a furnace that heated the whole hut. And then his muscles began trembling, small contractions that rippled through his body in little, continuous convulsions, and his breathing hitched and faltered, and Blair was terrified.

"NO! Dammit, NO!" he rasped hoarsely. Laying Jim back against the support of the packs, he cupped his friend's fever-flushed face in his hands, and he ordered, "Don't you do this! You hear me? You can't let go, Jim. You can't. You're not done here yet. Please, man, you have _got_ to fight back. I need you to help me, here. You hear me? Jim? Jim!"

Jim's breathing hitched again and faltered, and Blair closed his eyes. "I won't let you go," he insisted, galvanized into desperate action, pounding on Jim's chest with his cupped hands, to loosen the phlegm clogging his lungs, and then again clasped his face. _"I won't."_ Tears leaked from his eyes and slipped down his cheeks, but he was oblivious to them. "Please, Jim," he whispered urgently. "You have to come back. You have to hear me."

Again he closed his eyes and, not knowing what else to do, he called on the cosmos and he called to Jim's soul, begging him not to leave. Dizziness swamped him and he found himself in a blue world that was dark and shadowed but for a blazing bright light far ahead. He saw his panther limping toward the light, and he cried out with everything that was in him in protest and longing. From out of nowhere, a wolf leapt past, lunging forward and then blocking the panther's retreat, growling fiercely ... and then whining piteously.

Maybe it was the desperate, frightened whine, or maybe it was Blair's pleading calls for him to come back, but something stayed the panther then. Panting hard, his head dropped as if he was almost too weak to stand. But he stopped moving toward that too bright light, and then he lifted his head and nuzzled the frightened, bereft wolf. Slowly, the panther turned his head, and his pain-shadowed blue eyes stared into Blair's frightened gaze. "Please, Jim," he wept in desperation. "Please, please don't go."

The panther blinked, hesitated, and then slowly turned to pad back towards him, the wolf leaning close as if to help him stay upright.

In that moment, when the panther chose and started back toward him, Jim coughed, violently, choking. Blair grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up. Holding him against his chest with one arm, he pounded on Jim's back. "That's it," he encouraged. "Cough it up, man. Clear out those lungs. Cough it up."

Finally, the coughing fit subsided and Jim lay heavy against him, panting for breath.

"You're going to be okay," Blair soothed, rubbing slow circles on his back. "You're going to feel like shit for awhile, but you're going to be okay. Just keep fighting, Jim. Just don't give up. You really can't go yet. It isn't time. You've still got a lot of work to do ... you hear me? It's not time, Jim. Not yet."

Though Jim was breathing again, his fever was still raging dangerously, weakening him too much. Biting his lip, Blair eased him down and then turned to grab a basin. Still feeling residual dizziness, Blair stumbled a bit in his haste to get outside, and then fell to his knees, to scoop handfuls of snow into the metal bowl. Quickly, he hurried back into the hut. Taking a breath, he drew down the blanket and layered handfuls of snow at the base of Jim's throat, over his armpits and groin, and over his wrists and elbows, under his knees and around his ankles, where his blood ran closest to the skin. If he could cool Jim's blood, the blood would cool his body.

Immediately, Jim moaned in unconscious protest and recoiled in reflexive shock, but Blair kept up a steady reassuring murmur as he rubbed more snow onto his partner's torso, only wiping it off as it turned to water. Jim started shivering violently, and Blair layered the blankets back over him, and laid down to wrap his own body around Jim to add to the warmth. Jim's teeth chattered and he thrashed weakly, trembling with the sudden cold chills.

And then he went very still. Scared, Blair lifted his head from Jim's chest and reached to touch his face. Sweat beaded on Jim's brow and cheeks, and Blair sagged with relief. "Oh, yeah," he whispered hoarsely, his throat thick with emotion. "That's it," he murmured, grabbing a dry rag to wipe his friend's face.

Jim still seemed warm to the touch, but when the extreme fever broke sweat poured from his body, soaking him. He stopped muttering and seemed to fall into a more natural asleep. Again Blair bathed him and dried him carefully, and then rolled him to change the sodden leathers under his body, replacing them with soft dry scraps he'd been saving to make into new knee-length moccasins for them. After tucking the blankets securely around Jim's shoulders, he then fed Jim more of the herbal brews and, knowing his friend needed to replenish the fluids he'd just lost, he urged more water past Jim's lips. When he finished, he shifted around to get behind Jim, and then he lifted his friend to lay propped upright against his chest, to help him breathe. Wrapping his arms around his partner to hold him securely, Blair leaned into his weight and rested his chin on Jim's shoulder. "I love you, too, Jim," he murmured drowsily.

Minutes later, he slipped into sleep.

* * *

He jerked awake when Jim started coughing, deep, gasping coughs that sounded like they hurt. He could feel heat still radiating from his partner's body, but nothing as bad as it had been during the night. Tightening his grip to support Jim's chest and sides, he said quietly, "Easy, buddy, easy. Coughing is good but try to leave your lungs where they are, okay?"

When the hacking subsided with a small, miserable moan, he shifted to prop Jim on their packs and to see how his friend looked in the thin light of dawn that seeped in around the blanket over the door. Dipping a scrap of linen into the basin of cool water, he lightly washed Jim's flushed face, and noted the stark pallor under the fever on his flushed cheeks. Jim's eyes were open, but he seemed disoriented, confused about where he was and what was going on. His irises were dull, shadowed by misery.

Blair tipped a cup of water to his lips, and was relieved when he drank, if only instinctively, because he was beginning to look dehydrated; his lips were chapped and his skin had a papery sort of feel to it. When Blair started to spoon medicine into his mouth, though, Jim grimaced and spat it out, and turned his head away.

"Guess you're feeling a bit better, if you've got the energy to fight me on this," Blair sighed. Cupping his friend's face, he leaned forward to get Jim's attention. "Hey! Jim!" he called, but not so loudly as to hurt sensitive ears. Slowly, his partner's gaze tracked to look at him, but there wasn't any recognition in the look, nor curiousity, just a response to hearing his name. "Okay, Jim, you're sick, very sick. That's why you feel so bad, so sore and it's hard to breathe. Do you understand?"

Jim just blinked heavily, as if exhausted, and his gaze slipped away.

"Whoa, hold on, come back to me. Jim!" This time, when he got Jim's attention, he said firmly, "You need to swallow the medicine I'm giving you. Tastes sorta bad, but it'll make you feel better. Can you do that? Take medicine to get better?"

"Med'cine?" he echoed hoarsely. His brows bunched in a frown of concentration, and then he gave a slow, affirmative dip of his head and rasped, "Yeah."

"Good man," Blair approved, patting his cheek and then again spooning the elixirs, one after another. Jim's lips curled and he looked pathetic with his sad, hurt eyes, so confused but trying to do what was right, even though the flavours quite obviously made him nearly gag. "I'm sorry they taste so bad. I'll try to get some honey."

His energy spent, Jim closed his eyes and drifted into the half world of fevered sleep.

Simon appeared not long after with a canteen of fresh water. "How's he doing?"

"A little better, I think," Blair told him. "The high fever broke but he's still really sick. The coughing has started and that's good, but it'll exhaust him."

Joel called quietly from outside, and Simon slipped all the way in to let Joel slide in through the door. "Got some honey," he said triumphantly, holding up a clay pot as big as his fist. "From the camp followers. Woman said she'd do her best to make fresh bread for you, too. Name's Sally."

"Sally's a good woman," Blair smiled with gratitude. "She's married to one of Morgan's Rangers." Taking the jar, he said, "This is really great and will help a huge amount. He really, really hates the taste of the potions. And honey will give him some energy to fight back the infection. Thanks, Joel."

"He looks some better," Joel observed carefully, thinking Jim looked half dead.

"A little, I think," Blair agreed. "The next day or so will tell the tale." He thought for a moment and then said, "You know, if we could get some of that hooch that's in the camp, that might help."

"You planning on getting him drunk?" Simon exclaimed, surprised.

"No," Blair laughed. "But a little alcohol in bath water really helps cool the skin. I don't want that fever getting too high again."

Simon and Joel exchanged glances and then smiled wolfishly as they rumbled in unison, "Quinn." And then they were off to fulfill their mission. Blair grinned after them, glad of their enthusiastic help. He couldn't watch over Jim and look after him properly, and do all the running around for supplies, too.

And then he went back to caring for his friend. After getting Jim to swallow more water, he belatedly recalled with amusement that what goes in, eventually comes out, so he dug out one of his waterproofed pouches and tied it loosely over Jim's penis. Would save some cleanup time later. The leather shields he'd put under his friend's body would serve well enough to catch other elimination. He opened the precious jar of honey and used it to sweeten the brews of herbal medicine, and Jim accepted being dosed much better for the rest of the day. Blair chuckled when his friend unconsciously licked his lips. "Yeah, you like that, huh? Well, you can thank Sally and Joel. Far as I'm concerned, getting sick is your own darned fault, so you could just suffer the bad tastes." But his tone was fond, and gentle, and he caressed Jim's brow even as he teased him.

Another sponge bath, and then more sips of water.

And then Blair sank back to munch on some hard bread, a bit of cheese and some leftover roasted rabbit meat. As he ate, he studied Jim, who seemed less distressed; his fever was sure a lot better. But his breathing was increasingly congested, and that was worrisome. So, too, was the fact that he still wasn't responsive and it was clear, from the way he winced at noises and light, and the fretful twitching of his fingers and expressions, that his senses were still plaguing him.

With fresh flakes of snow sparkling on their ebony curls, Simon and Joel returned triumphant with a glass preserving jar of hooch. When he asked if they'd had any trouble, they snickered like fools and then shrugged with exaggeratedly innocent expressions and assured him that Quinn had been delighted to contribute to getting Jim well again. And that's all they'd say about that. They didn't stay but bustled off again to lay snares and to go scrounging for wild onions.

Sally came by to visit during the afternoon, bearing half a dozen rolls of precious bread. They talked quietly for a few minutes just outside the little hut, both of them keeping their voices low so as not to be overheard. Nobody else in the camp knew that they knew one another better than either of them let on. But Sally had also been a captive of the Cherokee for a few years. Like Blair, she'd been a child slave of sorts and had been reasonably well treated, too. Her grandparents had finally tracked her down, though, and gotten her back, oh, about seven years before. She didn't like people to know she'd lived with the Indians - people tended to treat women differently when they heard about it, always assuming the worst had happened. She couldn't stand the pity or the implied shame, when she had nothing to be ashamed about. So she just didn't talk about it. Even her husband didn't know. She'd been worried when she recognized Blair and feared he might betray her, and then had been inordinately grateful to him when he had not; he'd been friendly but had let her set the lead about how they handled those years, and those memories, between them.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Simon brought more fresh water as evening approached and, later, he brought Blair some fresh grilled rabbit, and Joel brought in a small tureen of hot onion broth. They made sure he didn't need more of his potions boiled up, and then wished him a good night.

Blair went through the regular routine of cooling Jim's skin, getting him to drink, take his medicine and to swallow some of the onion broth. He turned Jim on his side, to rub his back and to do some percussion pounding over his ribs, to loosen his chest congestion. Instead of putting Jim back on his back, he left him on his side, to give his skin a rest from the pressure, and Jim would breathe better and recover from coughing better on his side. Then he lay down beside his friend and reached out to caress Jim's face with feather light fingertips. "I wish you'd ... that you'd know what was going on, you know? We need to get those senses adjusted. And we got to get on top of that fever. It's just not letting go. Tomorrow, we'll get more medicine into you, and more water ... and we'll see how that works. I really hate to see you suffering like this, you know? Really hate this."

Jim, deeply asleep, snuffling and snoring raggedly because of the congestion, didn't answer.

"Well, at least you're sleeping, and that's good. Most healing seems to take place when we sleep. Don't know why. Guess it doesn't matter." His voice drifted away, and then he whispered, "I hope you wake up soon. I, uh, I miss you ... miss you a lot."

* * *

Jim's hacking cough woke him often during the night. Gently, he'd pull Jim up by his shoulders, and support his upper body while pounding with cupped fingers on his back. When the coughing eased, he lightly massaged his partner's back to loosen tense muscles that were going to ache badly from the violent coughing spells. And then he coaxed more fresh water into his friend, bathed him gently to cool his fevered skin, and spoke to him in soft, low soothing murmurs until Jim's fretfulness eased and he settled back to sleep.

It was well past dawn when Blair woke slowly the next day, gradually noticing that the sounds outside seemed muffled, like they did during and after a heavy snow. Jim's breathing was rough and congested and, even without opening his eyes, the hand he rested lightly on Jim's arm told him that there was still some fever radiating from his partner's skin, but not as badly as the day before, and much, much better than the day Jim had collapsed. He sniffed and stretched, yawned and opened his eyes ... and found Jim watching him blearily.

"Hey!" he smiled widely, sitting up and reaching to lightly stroke Jim's cheek. "You really awake this time?"

"Chief?" Jim croaked, his throat sounding raw, and he winced, as if speaking hurt. And then he coughed violently, choking on the phlegm.

Blair hastily pulled him up, pounded on his back and held a rag for him to cough up into. "Easy, easy," he crooned. "Shallow breaths, Jim. Easy, you're okay."

The hacking stopped and Jim sagged against him, weak as a kitten. Carefully, Blair laid him back against the propped packs, and poured a cup of cool water for him. Jim drank gratefully and sighed. Searching out Blair's gaze, looking utterly confused and miserable, he asked huskily, "Wha' happened?"

Blair rubbed his nose and gave him a quizzical look. "Oh, right," he finally replied. "You're the guy who's never been sick before. Well, Jim, this is what being sick feels like. You fell on your face a couple days ago, burning up with fever. I think you've got pneumonia."

Frowning, squinting against the light filtering into the tent, Jim tentatively rubbed his aching head and then ran a hand over his chest. "Hard to breathe," he rasped. "Hurts."

"Yeah, I bet everything hurts," Blair murmured, not unsympathetically. "We need to get your senses sorted out. They're all out of whack, I think. So, close your eyes and picture your telescopes. Take your time but turn them all way down, okay? Can you do that? Just close your eyes."

Though he was obviously having trouble concentrating, Jim complied and scowled with the effort. Finally, finally, his tense shoulders eased and the lines around his mouth and eyes smoothed out, and he sighed. Stroking his brow, Blair praised him softly. "I'm going to cool you down a bit, and then we'll get some medicine into you. After that, you can sleep some more. Sound good?"

Jim gave a miniscule nod, too weak to manage more. He seemed to fade in and out while Blair cared for him, but he took the potions sweetened by honey without complaint. "Thanks," he managed to croak, just before he fell asleep.

"You're welcome, buddy," Blair replied quietly. "Just don't go making a habit of this, okay?"

* * *

For the next three days, Jim slept more than he was awake. The fever came and went, but never spiked as badly as it had during the crisis of his initial collapse. Blair rigged a steam tent for him to help him breathe whenever the congestion got really bad, and percussed his back and chest for ten minutes or so at least three times a day, while Jim complained jokingly about getting beat up. For those days, Jim was a congenial patient, too weak and exhausted to be anything but grateful for the care he was given. Was even sweet, in a bleary, snuffly, croaky kind of way.

By the fifth day of his illness, he was feeling just well enough to be irritable, borne mostly from his embarrassment about being so much trouble, and his frustration at being so damnedly weak he couldn't stand on his own. Hell, he couldn't even crawl out of the hut on his own. It suddenly occurred to him that Blair must've been cleaning up after him for days, let alone bathing him to fight the fever and forcing enough medicine and nourishment into him to keep him alive. The fact that he knew full well he might have brought it all on himself by refusing to take that potion Blair had made for them all didn't improve his mood any. He really hated being wrong. Especially when someone else paid the price for it, in this case, Sandburg, who looked like he'd scarcely slept for a week.

So, he was grumpy and irascible, and just generally a pain in the ass.

"I can do that myself," he growled, gripping the bowl of broth and reaching for the spoon in Blair's hand. "Learned how to feed myself a few years back, as I recall."

Blair gave him a narrow look at the tone, but relinquished the bowl and spoon, and then hovered when he saw how shaky Jim's hands were. He spilled half the soup over himself before he got the spoon close to his mouth. "Yeah, I can see you learned those lessons well," he observed dryly, appropriating the bowl and wrestling for the spoon. A three-year-old would have put up more of a fight, so it wasn't much of a contest of strength.

At which point, Jim turned his face away and muttered he wasn't hungry.

"Yeah, well, tell someone who cares," Blair retorted, but without much sting. "You need to eat, and you know it. So stop the dramatics and open your mouth like any good little baby bird."

Despite himself, a grin twitched at the corner of Jim's mouth, but he manfully suppressed it. Grudgingly, he turned and opened his mouth, allowing himself to be fed. But he didn't have to like it, so he grumbled about the flavour and the smell and that it wasn't hot enough.

"I'll relay your concerns to the Chef," Blair replied evenly, and kept feeding him.

The medicines provoked another round of bitching about their taste, how much they stank, and how long did he have to keep taking this stuff anyway?

"Until the fever is gone for at least a week," Blair told him patiently. "And I know they don't taste that bad with the honey. The other day you were licking you lips to get more of them, so don't make like this is such a hardship. I'm not buying it."

Grimacing, Jim looked away. Just then, a light feminine voice hailed Blair from outside, and Sandburg turned quickly to crawl out of the hut. Frowning, Jim tried to hear who was there and what they were talking about, but his ears were stuffed with the cold and he'd turned his hearing down and he was distracted by the sound of laughter and then Blair was coming back inside, a cloth wrapped bundle in his hands. Jim sniffed but was too stuffed up to figure out what was in the package.

"Who was that?" he demanded to know, irritably.

"Sally," Blair replied with a bright smile. "She's been coming 'round every few days -"

"Well, sorry to be cramping your social life, Sandburg," he sniped nastily. Crossing his arms, he snarled, "You don't have to spend every damned minute of the day crammed in here with me. Go. If you want to see her so bad. Go."

"Sally's a friend, that's all," Blair told him, his tone subdued. He was getting a little tired of the persistent belligerence. "She brings us fresh bread, when she can."

"Say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Jim growled disparagingly. "Next thing you know, you'll be up and married and ...."

"Sally's already married to one of the rangers," Blair cut in. "What's with the attitude today, man?"

"I'm just saying you don't have to stick around on my account," he snapped. "You got your own life to live."

Blair's gaze fell away and he tilted his head, thinking. Then he smiled and teased, "You're just jealous, that's all. Probably wish you had a pretty girl coming round to see you and maybe taking care of you."

Jim glared at him, and then pointedly rolled away, but he floundered in his weakness, and a coughing jag hit him, robbing him of breath, leaving him choking and gasping, and then Blair had him sitting up against Sandburg's sturdy chest and was pounding on his back and reassuring him and holding him safe and telling him to breathe shallowly, and that he'd be alright. When Blair started rubbing soothing circles on his back, to ease the strain of his muscles and relax him when he could finally breathe again, holding him so close, so kindly, he couldn't stop the rush of tears that blinded him, and his trembling lips couldn't hold back the sob that burst from his throat.

"Oh, hey, hey," Blair murmured, lips nuzzling his brow as he curled his face into Blair's throat. "It's okay. I know it's hard and you feel rotten. It's just the sickness, making you feel weak and sad. But you'll be okay. Shh. Aw, Jim, it's okay ...."

Feeling like an ass but shaking so hard he clung to Blair for support, he couldn't seem to stop weeping. Blair held him and rocked him a little, one hand rubbing his back, holding him strongly, holding him safe. When the tears finally, blessedly ran out, he lay panting for breath against Blair's chest, one hand fisted in Blair's shirt. "I don't ... I don't know why ..." he stammered, snuffling. He'd never broken down like that in his life.

"You feel bad about being sick," Blair whispered against his brow. "And the fever and the disease makes you more vulnerable, more emotional. S'natural, Jim. Don't fret about it. An'... an' just so you know, I wouldn't ever choose to leave you. Wouldn't ever want to go away. I sure won't abandon you just to get some fresh bread on a regular basis."

Jim snickered and snuffled and shook his head weakly. He didn't know how Blair did it, but that had been exactly his irrational fear in those moments when he'd heard Blair laughing with some strange woman. Possessive and scared and sure that someday Blair would leave him, and that that might happen sooner rather than later, especially given all the trouble he was. "I'm a mess, Chief," he muttered in a hoarse rasp. "I feel like shit."

He felt Blair's chuckle ripple through his friend's body, and warmth filled him at the happy sound. "'m sorry," he mumbled. "For being such a jackass."

Blair laughed again and gripped him more tightly, holding him close. Secure in his partner's embrace, with Blair rocking him gently and humming a low, sweet melody in his ear, he fell asleep.

* * *

Every day after that, he got a little better, but slowly. His chest remained badly congested and they had to work on clearing his lungs, and using steam to help him breathe. The weakness seemed to go on and on but Blair told him that he'd been deathly ill and it was only natural that it would take a bit of time for him to get back on his feet again.

"Besides," Blair went on. "It's not like there's a whole lot to do this time of year. Not like we've got to get out and do some scouting or anything. If you're going to get sick, this is the time to do it." And then he hit Jim with the kicker. "Actually, this gives us a great opportunity to work on that problem of getting lost in a sense."

Jim groaned. "Great. Wait until I can't run for the hills and then torture me," he groused.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a vicious tyrant," Blair agreed. "But it doesn't take much energy and it's something we can do right here. So, let's get started."

Jim looked at him balefully, but then sniffed and nodded. "Do your worst," he invited resignedly.

Grinning, Blair sat cross-legged beside him. "I've been thinking about how to do this," he confided cheerfully. Raking his hair behind his ears, he went on, "I'm sure you can catch yourself, if you're just a little more aware of the feeling of slipping away. So, we're going to start with hearing. I want you to stretch out your hearing to the forest, and find a sound, like a bird chirping or some little animal foraging in the snow. And then I want you to focus on all the details of the sounds, listening closer and closer and closer ...."

Jim nodded and closed his eyes, reaching out and farther out, filtering out the rowdy and wrenching sounds and voices of the camp around them. Out into the forest, where he found a squirrel chittering and scratching at something. Frowning, he listened to the scratching, trying to figure out what it was, closer and closer ...."

"Jim, come on back, big guy," he heard Blair calling to him, and felt Blair's warm hand on his arm. Blinking, he looked around.

"I lost it," he sighed, discouraged.

"Sorta expected you to," Blair replied, unconcerned. "What did it feel like as you zeroed in?"

And so it began. For days, they worked on all of his senses until he knew exactly the point at which he began to slip out of control and could bring himself back before it was too late. Blair was effusive in his praise and congratulations, and the warmth of such glowing approval made him feel good. As did knowing that the fits that had plagued him all his life were no mystery anymore, and he could stop himself, maybe not always, but most of the time, from getting lost in the depths of his mind.

Early in February, he noticed a new sound from the world outside. A guttural, commanding German accent, haranguing the men, cursing them.

"Who the hell is that?" he demanded.

"Who?" Blair asked, looking up from the moccasins he was stitching together.

Frowning, tilting his head, Jim replied, "There's a German guy in camp ordering men around and cursing them."

"Oh, yeah, that's the Baron," Blair told him, setting his work aside. "I heard he showed up the other day, offering his services to the General to train the men into professional soldiers. His name's von Steuben and he's quite a character. About sixty, I'd guess, strong as an ox. Trimmed white beard, marches around with military precision. Seems to rile easily and curses in frustration, but doesn't seem really mean. Not cruel. Brought his own entourage of two young aides that are at his abrupt beck and call, but they obviously worship him. And he's good. He knows what he's talking about. He's picked a squad of men to train and drill until they're good enough to drill other squads ... eventually we'll all be trained on the proper way to use a bayonet, how to act in precision formation, and whatever else real soldiers know how to do. The men are really perking up. Gives 'em something to think about and do, besides drink and play cards."

Simon and Joel dropped by a little later for their daily visit, to check on Jim and to see if there was anything either of the two men needed. They had amusing stories to share of watching the Baron first hand, and they mimicked his Prussian manner with devastating hilarity. The laughter did them all good, restoring a sense of normalcy amongst them. Though Jim was still very weak, he was getting better every day, and that filled them all with a quiet kind of joy.

* * *

The Baron von Steuben was about the only good thing during that grim February of 1778. The supplies that had come in January were long gone. The cold was the worst of the winter, and the men were still barely clothed in rags. Horses dropped of starvation. Illness continued to rage through the camp, and men kept dying in starved misery. Their destitution was made worse by knowing that their wretched need wasn't the result of want throughout the country, but because nobody in Congress cared enough to ensure promised monies were paid to provisioners and wagoneers. Those that had used to care, men like Jefferson, had been voted out in favour of sly, wily men who made promises they'd never intended to deliver upon. Franklin and Adams were still in France. Rumours about hogsheads of meat, and countless wagonloads of grain and clothing all being left to rot at crossroads because the drivers weren't paid either enough or on time to bring the supplies into Valley Forge were hard to take when they were starving. The men were galled that the people they were fighting for couldn't be bothered to feed them enough to keep them alive, let alone strong.

But instead of desertions increasing, which was expected, they decreased substantially. The men seemed to grow stubborn, determined that they, at least, cared about the country and their future, and they'd be damned if they'd give up or let the British win. They were free men and intended to stay free. They worked with all the energy they had to learn what von Steuben had to teach them, and they learned well.

There were rumours, too, about a concerted plot against Washington, to replace him with Gates. The machinations came to light after the nephew of one of the principles in the nefarious scheme bragged about his inside knowledge while in his cups one night in a tavern - and friends of Washington overheard.

The General investigated with his usual fair and sober grace, winning a great deal of admiration from all concerned. The threat became a boon, as people who were ashamed to have been party to the slander and the backstabbing hastened to show their support of him. He argued fiercely for better supplies and support for his men - and, finally, after months of terrible deprivation, they began to get what they needed, and their back pay was finally brought up to date.

As March wore on, and the Army grew stronger, more confident, well and warmly garbed now, and well fed, Jim, too, regained his strength. He and Blair walked for hours in the woods to rebuild his stamina, and they both took part in drills to learn what von Steuben had to teach them all. On one of those walks, Jim paused to hunker down and poke a stick into the softening, spring ground. His expression was thoughtful, and a frown of concern puckered his brow. Blair watched him curiously, wondering what he had on his mind.

Finally, Jim sighed and looked up at his friend and thought to himself that the word 'friend' would never be enough to express all that Blair had become to him. No brother could be closer. No lover could ever share so much of what they shared. Blair was his confidante, knew all his secrets; was often his conscience and the best teacher and philosopher who had ever stretched his mind and soul. Blair had freed him from the chains his senses had been and made them gifts that enriched his life in ways he was still discovering. From the beginning, Blair had moved to anticipate his every need, from nursing his wounds, to harnessing his senses, to helping bring food to their camp and creating clothing and footwear to keep him warm in winter. Blair had been his protector in battle, his caretaker when he'd been so sick that he might have died, lavishing him with tender and gentle, patient and affectionate attention, meeting all his needs. Maybe his mother had done that for him, when he'd been a baby, but he couldn't remember, and no one had ever done anything so kind for him in his life since. Blair promised him companionship and safety, a refuge when it all got too much. Made him laugh in the darkest of times. Blair ... Blair had unlocked the anger that had held his heart hostage, had helped him to think of his family with affection rather than resentment. Blair had opened his world, taught him so much, made him so much stronger. And was there, always there, half a stride away, and was committed to always being there, someone he could trust without question and always rely upon with his life.

How did you thank a man who was all that? Did all that? A man who had become, somehow, the foundation of your world? How did you ever begin to let him know how valued he was, how important, even essential, he was in your life? How, when words didn't come easy, when the softest of emotions were the hardest to express, how did you say you loved such a man and that you'd die yourself, give your life freely, rather than ever lose him?

Tears burned in his eyes and, embarrassed, blinking hard, he broke their gaze and looked away. His head bowed as he sniffed and struggled to find a way to say what was in his heart. But his throat was thick and he could scarcely breathe, let alone speak.

Quietly, Blair moved closer and hunkered down beside him; reached out to grip his shoulder. "When you were really sick," he said softly, "you said things, lots of things, about how you feel. About how grateful you are and how ... how much our friendship means to you. But, but what seemed to worry you most then was that you thought that I don't know how you feel. That seemed to worry you a lot." Tilting his head to look into Jim's averted face, he went on, "I'll tell you now what I told you then, though you weren't in any shape to hear me. _I know_ , Jim. I really do know. You show me in all kinds of ways every single day that you're really glad I'm around and that you enjoy my company. You listen whenever I have ideas, and you respect them, you respect me. You do your best to protect me, whether I need to be protected or not, because ... because you don't want me hurt. You're ... you're the best man I've ever known, and I'm just as glad and grateful to have you in my life, you know?" He paused, and his voice was husky, hesitant, when he said, "I love you, too, man. You're more than family to me. You're everything."

Jim pressed his lips and eyelids closed to contain the rioting emotions he felt. Reaching blindly, he pulled Blair toward him and hugged him fiercely. "I don't know what I'd do if ..." he rasped hoarsely, but couldn't even think the words, let alone say them.

Blair's embrace around him tightened. "You'd do what you have to do," he murmured fiercely. "What you were born to do. You'd keep on going until this war was won. Always doing the best you could, because that's who you are. And ... and I hope then that you'd have a good life, you know? Because that's what you deserve. A really great life."

"Don't," Jim begged raggedly. "Don't ever ..."

"I won't," he whispered, his voice raw. "Not by choice. I wouldn't ever choose to leave you; believe that. No more than you would choose to leave me. I know that, too."

They clung together for long moments more, and then Jim loosened his grip, ran his fingers over Blair's head and pulled fondly on a curl. Shifting out of Blair's embrace, he stood and reached a hand to draw his partner up beside him. Sheepishly, he studied the ground and then nodded. Swallowing hard, he looped an arm around Blair's shoulders and began to walk on. "I'm glad you know," he finally managed to mutter. "Really glad you know ... how I ... how I feel."

"Aw, man," Blair teased then, grinning at him brightly, "you're an open book to me. A wide open book."

"Is that so?" Jim challenged playfully.

"Yeah," Blair replied, and his smile softened. "My most favourite book of all. A never-ending story that I just can't get enough of, you know?"

Snickering, bemused by the description, Jim shook his head. Easy together, they moved on with their exploration of the woods above the camp, teasing and laughing, glad to be alive and to have these days of peace before the world called them back and the war beckoned.

* * *

The Army remained in winter quarters until June. Eleven thousand, maybe twelve, had stumbled into that valley that was truly a forge upon which their spirits were hammered and fired, honed into steel. Officially, Washington told Congress that two thousand, five hundred men died of privation and illness that winter. And some he'd sent to winter elsewhere ... though not many could have made such a journey in the dead of winter and survived, while new recruits kept arriving, once swelling the camp numbers to thirteen thousand. No one really knew how many had died that grievous winter. The bodies had been burned; there were no graves to count. Of all those who marched into Valley Forge, less than eight thousand formed up to march back out again, but those eight thousand were men transformed. Those who survived the hell of that winter were a new breed, warriors who knew they had endured the worst that life could ever throw at them, and they'd come out not only alive but stronger than they'd ever been.

On June 16th, 1778, six months to the day of their terrible march into the valley, leaving bloody footprints in the snow, freezing and starving, a new, confident, professionally trained and disciplined Army strode proudly out of Valley Forge with fifes and drums playing and flag waving. Fit as athletes, trained as well as any European enemy, they were more than ready to confront those who would deny them freedom.

Ready and determined to win.

* * *

Within days of leaving Valley Forge, the ranks of the army had swollen to nearly fourteen thousand as militiamen and new volunteers arrived. When Jim and Blair reported back after a scouting mission around Philadelphia that the British Army appeared to be packing up, Washington smiled sparingly, and briskly called in his commanders: Sullivan, Greene, Wayne, Stirling, Lafayette - and General Lee, who Washington was very glad had finally been released on a prisoner trade by the British, after having been held by them for over a year. Swiftly, he outlined his plan for the battle, but Lee protested, arguing that the British were too strong to take on directly, that the traditional harrying and cautious approach remained the best one. "Let them go back to New York," he urged. "So long as they get out of Philadelphia, that's all that matters."

"No, I disagree," Washington replied firmly. "We're more than a match for them now, and I just don't want them out of Philadelphia - I want them back in Great Britain."

It was settled that a small group would be sent ahead of the British forces to disrupt their retreat by burning bridges, blocking roads by chopping down trees, muddying wells to compromise their access to fresh water, and sniping at them, to give time for the whole Army to mobilize and catch up and engage them in battle.

Morgan and his rangers were selected for the duty, and Jim and Blair were assigned as their scouts. When the British began moving out of Philadelphia on June 18th and into New Jersey, the small band was ahead of them, already busy putting obstacles in their way.

The British Army of eleven thousand troops and another thousand Loyalists, and their extensive baggage train that rattled along for twelve miles in their wake, took a week to move a mere forty miles. Added to the nuisance of the patriot band, the weather was rainy and hot, the road muddy, so travel was hard. General Henry Clinton, who had been given command of the British forces when Howe was recalled, was growing increasingly frustrated and anxious. The French navy was on its way across the Atlantic, and he'd heard reports that Washington's army had weathered the winter well, coming out strong, whereas his own troops had languished in Philadelphia, enjoying the gaming and horseracing and women and drink too much. He wanted to get back to the fortress of New York and the flexibility that location gave him for movement either by land or by water. And he wanted to get there quickly.

On June 23rd, Washington moved his army into position, camping within miles of the British. He wanted a decisive battle. But Lee reprised his objections, pointing out vehemently that they had little more than a thousand men on the British strength, and while, yes, eight thousand or so thought themselves good enough to face British regulars, thinking so wasn't the same as being so. He contended that an attack was foolhardy and unnecessary. Once more, he advocated nipping at their heels, quick hit and runs, to do a lot of damage but not put their entire force at risk. He was eloquent and he swayed the thinking around the council table. Washington backed down, agreed to attack the rear of the British column and assigned that role to Lee. However, the general then shrugged and waved off the assignment. Such modest harassment didn't need a general in charge. Lafayette intervened to say he'd welcome the role Washington had allotted to Lee, that of being the advance force to engage the British as they marched toward the road to Amboy. Briskly, disappointed with Lee, Washington agreed, and the discussion went on. Lee, however, seemed surprised when Lafayette was then assigned over five thousand troops to harass the British rearguard. That was a sizeable force, one that was prestigious to command.

The next day, Lee recanted his position and asked for the right to lead the attacking force. As Washington's most senior and experienced general, it was his place and right to do so, and the General readily agreed.

On June 25th, Clinton started along the road to Monmouth Court House, a small village at the crossroads where he'd turn toward Perth Amboy. By the twenty-seventh, his column was within striking distance, and Washington ordered Lee to attack on the twenty-eighth. He told the rest of his commanders to be ready for changes in orders on the field, as he wanted to evaluate the situation on the ground before deciding the next move. He left Dickinson, with the New Jersey militia, and Morgan, with his Rangers, free to continue their harassment along Clinton's flanks. Jim and Blair, having been left to act on their own discretion, shifted up and around the advancing British, skirting the village of Monmouth Courthouse. From there, they had a vantage point on the first assault, and could watch for Washington as well as aid in the battle. Joel and Simon were back with the General and would watch his back once battle commenced. They would particularly watch Quinn.

June 18th, 1778 dawned blisteringly hot. At eight AM, Lee was on the high ground overlooking Clinton's advance, the perfect strategic location to wreak considerable damage. Clinton spotted the threat and moved quickly to have his own battalions form up to protect his baggage train.

And then, rather than attack ... Lee began issuing confusing orders willy-nilly, moving units around and back and forth until everyone was confused. Then he began complaining bitterly that he didn't have sufficient intelligence on the British force - which was clearly laid out before him. Units advanced, but didn't get promised support, and so fell back. Other units began to fall back, but weren't sure why, as Lee had stopped issuing orders, confusing or otherwise. Frustrated, Lafayette sent word back that they needed the General at the front. Finally, Lee ordered a precipitous retreat, urging the men to hasten forthwith through swampy ground and along the road back to the main Army. Nobody knew why they were retreating but orders were orders.

Clinton, astonished to witness the retreat of an army that had not yet been repulsed, charged after them.

Washington, in response to Lafayette's urgent summons, was riding fast to the front when he ran into the retreating soldiers. Outraged, he demanded what was happening and was told that Lee had told them to move back. Furious, he ordered them back around, and called to the officers to get them organized for battle, and then to resume a forward march. And then he rode further ahead, searching for Lee. When he finally encountered him, he demanded in a loudly ringing angry voice to know why Lee had failed to execute his orders and was running from the enemy.

Lee, somewhat overwhelmed by the unusual spectacle of Washington lividly angry, argued that he'd never supported the action and still didn't. That he was saving the men from annihilation by the British. Washington could scarcely believe his ears. "My orders MUST be obeyed," he roared with cold contempt. "Get to the rear and stay there. I'll deal with you once we've dealt with the British! GO, damn you. Get out of my sight!"

And then Washington took command, urging his forces into position to meet Clinton's advance along the road from Monmouth Court House.

When Lee had broken and run, Jim and Blair were as astonished by the action as everyone else. They loped ahead of the British, anxious to get to their lines and find out what the hell was going on. They arrived in the thick of things just in time to hear Lee being soundly dressed down and dismissed. Scanning the milling crowd of men, they couldn't see Simon or Joel and concluded the General must have outpaced them on his charger when he'd begun racing to the front.

"I don't see Quinn," Jim growled, rapidly searching the ranks of men who were still running about in some confusion.

"Listen for him," Blair urged. When Jim gaped at him, he went on, "C'mon, you know what he sounds like, always whining. He'll be bitching about this heat and anything else that comes to his pinheaded mind. Listen for his whine."

Jim quirked a brow, but gave it a try, tilting his head and frowning with the effort of pushing away all the other sounds that vied for his attention. Blair waited anxiously beside him, one hand on his back, and kept watch on Washington, his own gaze raking the crowd of men surging around him.

"Got him," Jim said, his voice clipped. Shifting, he pointed toward the General's location. "C'mon," he urged, and they were running flat out.

The Americans had only minutes to regroup in a defensive line before the British swept along the road. By twelve-thirty, fierce battle was engaged. Three times, Clinton tried to break through the American lines, first on the right flank, then the left and finally down the middle. His cannon bombarded the Americans, doing considerable damage, but still the Americans gave no ground and fought fiercely back. When one of their own cannon fell silent when the soldier manning it was wounded, his wife, Mary Hayes, one of the women affectionately known as Molly Pitcher, stepped into his place. Hitching up her skirts to keep them out of the way, her legs bare, she fired time after time as the cannon was loaded with grape shot. Once, a near deadly enemy cannonball came so close it the heat of it burned her legs, but she never faltered. Other American cannon were brought into position, and blasted the British cannon location into submission.

The fighting was fierce; neither side gave quarter as the scorchingly hot afternoon wore on. Washington was constantly on the move, rallying his men, shifting units as needed for greater effect. Jim and Blair were as caught in the battle as everyone else, firing and sometimes engaged in hand to hand combat with bayonet and warclub. They couldn't keep up with Washington's galloping shifts, and so they concentrated on sticking close to Quinn, or as close as they could, and paying particular attention to him whenever the General was in range of his deadly aim. A drunken, whining sot he might be in camp, but on the northern campaign the previous summer, they'd learned the man didn't miss what he aimed at, and that he killed with feral delight.

The day was waning but still the heat was blindingly intense. Men on both sides had collapsed from sunstroke all over the field, dying from the heat and not an enemy bullet. The British were trying a last push up the center, toward their position and Washington charged over to encourage his men.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Quinn lift his rifle and whirled to judge his line of fire, even as the British came at them. Blair shifted to stand between him and the enemy's advance, protecting his back. Jim looked from Quinn to Washington, back to Quinn and saw how he was tracking ... and he knew.

"QUINN!" he shouted, even as he lifted his own weapon. "DON'T!"

Bullets whizzed past his head and one tugged through his leather sleeve, but he held his position. Quinn jerked his head around at the shout, startled, and then he spotted Jim and realized the game was up. An eerie cold smile split his lips, and he sharply shifted, his rifle coming into line on Jim, his finger already tightening.

"CHIEF! DOWN!" Jim shouted and, behind him, Blair dropped without question, even as he lunged sideways and rolled, evading the shot that traveled on to bring down the redcoat Blair had been battling with. Sprawled on the ground, Jim aimed and shot.

And Quinn dropped.

Their final push repulsed, the British fell back. The day, the longest day of battle of the entire war, was drawing to a close and Clinton wanted to get back to secure the luggage train. The Americans had proven tougher, far tougher, than he'd expected. He could not overcome them in open battle. The thought was chastening.

Washington sorely wanted to race after him and continue the fight. But his men were dropping like flies now from the heat, panting with exhaustion after having run halfway across the countryside and back again that day - not to mention having fought off the determined might of the full British Army. By the time he was able to give them a breather and had rallied the light infantry to move forward and engage the British again, dusk was falling and he had to break off for the day.

The army entrenched for the night, intending to resume the battle with the dawn's light.

Washington rode back to the rear, where a furious Lee was waiting for him. Humiliated by how he'd been treated earlier in front of the enlisted men, he was wild with umbrage. He yelled at Washington to court martial him if the General thought he was so unfit to lead and trusted his judgment so little. Regarding him coldly, Washington obliged him, charging him with disobedience and willful neglect of duty and put him under guard.

When word of the unprecedented act circulated amongst the troops, Jim shook his head. "Not good enough," he grated. "The man's a traitor. Has to be. He's too experienced a general to have muddled so badly and to have refused to engage when he was in the perfect, the stronger position."

Blair's expression was grim. "You could be right," he allowed. "Lee was never any use - remember? Back in '76, he waffled around, avoided fights like the plague, kept the main army out of action for months while he rambled around New Jersey refusing to rejoin Washington. And he's been with the British ever since they took him in that ridiculously easy raid - been with them for a year and a half. And no prison ship for him, by the look of it, or treatment as a traitor to the Crown, which he could have been charged with as a former senior officer of the British Army. Came back here looking well fed and slick and as cocky as ever."

When they reported to Washington, expecting to be sent back out to keep an eye on the British force, the General eyed them critically. They looked as exhausted as they felt, streaked with sweat and grime, pale with fatigue. "I heard you dealt with Quinn today," he observed dryly.

Jim stiffened. Shooting a comrade, let alone in the midst of battle, could easily be mistaken for something other than it was. "Yes, sir," he replied tonelessly.

"I also hear he was drawing a bead on me when you called him down," Washington went on, a thin smile dancing on his lips. "While the British were hot on your back."

Shrugging, Jim nodded.

"Well done and thank you," the General said then, standing to shake his hand. "Both of you," he commended Blair, as well. "The two of you never fail to serve me well, not since the beginning of this confrontation. But, I think, for tonight, I'll dispense with your services. You both look like you could use some sleep."

"Thank you, sir," they said in unison, saluted, stepped back and left his presence. But they were smiling broadly at his approbation when they sought out the campfire Simon and Joel had set up. They all swiftly devoured their meal and then curled up on the ground. Trusting the sentries to do their jobs, they were asleep before they'd drawn another breath.

* * *

Washington was not well pleased to learn the next morning that Clinton had stolen a page from his book, and had slipped away under cover of darkness. He mobilized the army and set off in pursuit, and did some damage from the rear, but Clinton had gotten too far and was away and into New York before he could be stopped.

Giving up the chase, Washington turned back to re-establish a firm American presence in Philadelphia, and he deployed regiments around the borders of New York to keep Clinton boxed in, as well as sending some south to bolster the war effort there.

When he rode into Philadelphia, he was shocked. He'd heard there had been privation in the city over the winter, with the British consuming more than their fair share of victuals and then some. But the haggard, impoverished, starved look of the populace was worse than he'd imagined. They needed help getting organized again, needed provisioning urgently. And he was tired of the nonsense and incompetence around the provisioning of his army. Never again did he want men under his command to suffer what they'd suffered in Valley Forge. So, he took command of the unacceptable situation, and took steps to ensure both the security of the people in Philadelphia and the wellbeing of his men.

Arnold got a promotion, as he'd hoped, but not the command he would have liked. Instead, he was given the responsibility for restoring Philadelphia, for organizing what supplies there were and for distributing them fairly, for getting local government re-established and for assisting Congress to return to their seat of government.

And Nathaneal Greene found himself in charge of provisioning for the Army, again, not a job he relished, but one he took on with vigor.

Having organized matters to his will, and looking around at the current war situation, Washington found himself momentarily at a loss. For the first time since he'd assumed command, he wasn't on the run. For the first time, the British were holed up in New York because he'd driven them there. And they were there under the leadership of a new commander because he'd defeated Howe and Howe had been recalled in disgrace. His army was strong, well uniformed, well trained, well equipped and well fed. He held sway from Quebec to Manhattan.

And for the first time, now that he had time to catch his breath and consider the situation, he realized he was winning the war. The Americans had proven themselves more than worthy adversaries. They were tough, gutsy, and committed ... and now they had shown they had the skills in all out, brutal combat to hold the British and drive them back. They were winning.

And he didn't have anywhere in particular to be.

Congress, ebullient at being back home in Philadelphia and effusive in their praise for his success, insisted on wining and dining him throughout July, but that soon palled. They might be winning, but they hadn't yet won; it offended his nature to be living lavishly when he had men still fighting battles in the field south of Philadelphia.

But, still, his presence was not required at the front, and there were others to be commended, others who had worked tirelessly to support the war effort from the beginning. Others like those who mined the ore and forged the cannon and the balls they fired.

One of those massive mining operations and forges was relatively nearby, just to the northwest of Philadelphia, so he determined to pay them a visit with a small retinue. It would almost be a holiday of sorts for men who'd had no respite and who had earned an easier time of it, at least for a few weeks before he sent them back into the fray. Besides, they'd be heading to the edge of the frontier and there was still the potential threat of Indian attacks. So, it would be good to have his best scouts with him. Smiling to himself, he wrote out new orders for Captain Ellison and his small but exceptionally effective team.

* * *

They traveled slowly, enjoying the summer weather, stopping at towns and villages along the way who were excited to have the Commander in Chief in their presence. It was the third week of August by the time they reached Cornwall Forge, and they spent another week touring the massive forge and the mines, learning about the rigors of mining, and the hazards. Jim found the close, stuffy air, the heavy scent of metal and the feeling of being trapped under tons of earth claustrophobic in the extreme, so he and his team were given leave to go back to the surface. As they made their exit, Jim advised the General that they'd do some scouting of the area with Simon and Joel, and return to their camp on the edge of the forest, close to town by nightfall. The General, well content to be left with the Forge's manager for the rest of the day, and scheduled as well to enjoy the man's hospitality that night, genially waved them off.

When they got back above ground, they found the air outside was almost as stifling as it had been in the mine. Smoke belched from the tall chimneys and soot filled the air. And it was hot, very hot and humid, the air sticky and thick. Anxious for some fresh air, they headed away from the millworks and town, up into the hills; Simon and Joel broke off to scout to the south and west, while they headed north. Finding a brook-fed pool, Jim and Blair indulged themselves with a brisk swim to cool off. They played like boys half their age, splashing and wrestling in the water, and then sprawled on the fragrant grass in the shadow of an oak to let the hot air dry them before dressing again.

Relaxed, content, they dozed for an hour or so.

The sky darkened as they slept; black, heavy clouds from the southwest piled up against the mountains and dropped lower, obscuring the horizon. The wind picked up, at first a gentle ripple of relief, easing the mugginess of the day, but soon the branches of the trees were swaying vigorously. Lightning flared in the distance and low, long rumbling threatened of the coming storm.

Jim jerked awake and blinked at the clouds. He scraped sleep from his eyes and reached out to shake Blair. "Rise and shine, Chief," he called softly as he began to pull on his clothes. "Storm's coming. We should get off the high ground."

Blair yawned and stretched, but when thunder rumbled again, louder and closer, he scrambled to get dressed. "Oh, man," he grumbled. "We are going to get _soaked_ before we get back to our camp."

Chuckling at the familiar complaint, Jim clapped him on the back and led off with a long, loping stride, down the long hill. As he had from the first day almost exactly two years before, Blair paced him easily, a half step back and to the side. Raindrops plopped heavily, smacking their faces and bodies, the first, tentative barrage of what was to come. The wind had a cold bite now, driving off the heat of the day, and the trees were being whipped, their branches creaking and clacking in protest. They increased their pace, moving faster as they skimmed around trees and leapt over low-lying thick undergrowth and the ancient rotting logs of trees that had fallen long years before.

The rain began to fall with a vengeance, pouring down, beating at them with stinging hard pellets, and the cold wind whipped their hair into their faces. Blair started to laugh, a rich counterpoint of lilting sound to the ever closer rumbling of thunder. "Cold and wet is our world, Jim," he chanted as he pounded along, and then he laughed again, having too much fun and enjoying their day of freedom too much to grouse about it.

Relishing the laughter, Jim unconsciously turned up his hearing to enjoy all the light and sparkling nuances of it against the voice of the storm. He turned, grinning widely, and was reaching to loop his arm around Blair's shoulders when there was a sudden, blinding flash of lightning shattering through the gloom around them and an almighty crack of shocking proportion right above them. Blinded and deafened in an instant, Jim stumbled and doubled over, his hands covering his ears and his eyes pressed tightly shut. Distantly, through his ringing ears, he heard crashing sounds and Blair screaming out his name - and then he was shoved hard and was falling, tumbling down the steep hill until he struck a tree. The breath knocked out of him, he just lay crumpled for a moment, gasping and getting his bearings.

The sensory spike had hurt but, like always, it passed quickly as he hastily focused on turning down his hearing and checked his sight. Pushing himself to his knees, he gazed around a little groggily, wondering where Blair was. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, and then stood in the teeming rain, looking back up the hill. A tree had been split by the lightning strike and half of it had crashed to the earth, the broken wood white and jagged against the deepening false dusk of the storm. Where the hell was Blair?

And then the breath caught in his chest when he realized the destroyed tree was lying just about where they'd been when the lightning and thunder had blinded and deafened him. "SANDBURG!" he shouted above the raging howl of the wind. And then he was running, running flat out, running as if his life depended upon it, up the sharp slope, stumbling and half crawling as he pulled his way back to where he'd been when Blair had pushed him out of danger.

Lightning flashed again ... and in its brutal clarity, just at the edge of the fallen oak, under thick branches and leaves, he saw a pale hand stretched out, as if reaching, yearning toward him.

"BLAIR!" he screamed as he yanked an axe from his pack, and then he was hacking viciously through the branches, cutting his way closer to his partner. "SANDBURG!" he yelled, over and over, straining to hear a response, but all he could hear was a too fast heartbeat skipping out of control. In a frenzy of haste, he cut and chopped and flung branches away, getting closer, closer ....

Until he could see the branch that pressed down on Blair's chest. Not all that big a branch, about as thick as his arm, but it had come down with the weight of the tree behind it, crushing everything in its path.

Blair was sprawled, half twisted, as if he'd been trying to dive out of danger, lunging to follow Jim down the steep hill, but he'd been caught and ploughed into the rocky ground. Blood bubbled on his lips with every shallow, painful gasp, and his eyes were open, squinting against the rain, his pupils dark and wide with shock and pain.

"Oh no," Jim choked as he dropped to his knees. Furiously, he attacked the branch and with one mighty blow, shattered it and pushed it off his partner's body. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

"J-Jim," Blair gasped and coughed, blood splattering his lips. His hand fumbled, reaching for Jim but he was too weak to lift his arm. "C-can't b-b-breathe."

"Easy, easy," Jim crooned, his voice breaking as he lifted Blair's shoulders as gently as he could, and he felt Blair's cry of anguished pain in his gut. Carefully, tenderly, he supported Blair's back with one leg and the arm he had around his friend's shoulders. Curling over him, trying to shelter him from the rain, he gently drew Blair's head close to rest against his chest.

"S-s-sor-ry," Blair rasped breathlessly, his gaze seeking Jim's eyes. Again, he tried to lift his hand, and Jim clutched his fingers, wrapped his hand around Blair's and drew it to his heart. "I don .. don' wanna g-go," he whispered, each word an agony of wispy breath. Tears filled Blair's eyes and he weakly shook his head. "S-s-s-sorry," he stammered again.

"No, no, shh, don't talk," Jim urged him, unaware of the tears mixed with rain streaming down his cheeks. Horrified, he could hear Blair's lungs filling with blood, could hear the grind of broken bones with each breath Blair took. Helplessly, he listened to Blair's heart hammering faster and faster, a desperate tattoo, trying so hard to live. When Blair's fingers scrabbled for and found a grip on his shirt, he let go and cupped his palm along the side of his best friend's face. And he sobbed because he didn't know what to do, didn't know how to stop what was happening, how to turn back time and make everything all right.

Blair closed his eyes and cuddled close against him. "Just hold me," he sighed, his voice so fragile that only a sentinel could have heard him. And then he swallowed hard and struggled to find breath as he again sought Jim's gaze. "'member," he gusted faintly. "'member. Job to do. C'n do it," he panted, his fingers clutching Jim's shirt with fierce determination.

"Blair ..." Jim began, but his voice broke and his throat closed, locking the words away.

"S-kay," Blair whispered then, and a faint, faint smile ghosted over his lips as his gaze softened with love. "P-promise. I ... p-promise," he gasped and dragged in another shallow, shuddering breath. As he exhaled, he sighed, "I'll see you again ... someday."

And then there was just the howling wind and the splatter of rain, the clatter of tree branches and rumble of thunder. But the whole world might have gone breathlessly still for all Jim could hear was silence where there was once the steady, thrumming beat that had become the backdrop and foundation of his life.

His face a rictus of unbearable grief, his mouth opened in a silent howl of protest and loss. His chest felt like it was caving in and he couldn't, couldn't breathe. He started to tremble and then was quaking, and his body dragged in air in a shuddering moan as he clutched Blair's broken body to him. He lifted his face to the heavens and screamed, **_"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"_** But there was no one to hear, no help to be had. He sagged over Blair's body, weeping, _"Oh, God. No."_

Burying his face in the sodden curls, holding Blair against him, he sobbed with wild, naked, bottomless grief. Oblivious to the storm that raged on around him, time lost all meaning as he rocked Blair's lifeless body and whispered his partner's name over and over until he was too hoarse to make any sound and still his lips moved, keening for Blair.

Night fell and the thundering rain finally abated but still Jim crouched under the wreckage of the tree, clutching Blair close. He couldn't, just couldn't, get past ... couldn't take it in. Couldn't accept, couldn't believe, couldn't bear ....

"Ah, Chief," he murmured brokenly, stricken with guilt and aching with grief as he tenderly stroked the sodden curls and Blair's cold face. "I was listening to you laugh and ... and the lightning and thunder, the crashing - I lost it. I lost ... lost y-you. I don't know h-how to do this. H-how to l-let go." Tears again burned his eyes but he blinked them away as he stared up at the now clear sky, stared at the stars that Blair had wished he could see more clearly. "Where are you?" he asked plaintively. "How will I find you?"

There was no answer but for the rustle of wind through the trees around him. Sniffing, he again looked down upon Blair's face, smooth now, all the pain gone, but all the life and animation gone, too. "I never loved anyone like I love you," he whispered huskily. "And nobody, nobody ever loved me the way you did." He pressed his lips against Blair's chill brow. "I need you, Chief," he murmured then, sounding lost. "Need you here. I don't know if I can do this without you. I just know I don't want to. I don't want to."

Bowing his head over his partner's body, exhausted, he shivered and closed his eyes. Memories of old conversations drifted through his mind. "You said you'd never leave me," he whispered hoarsely, but without accusation. Blair had always added the qualifier that he'd never go willingly. And he hadn't. He'd protected Jim with his last act, and promised they see one another again with his last breath. But it hadn't been the war, an enemy bullet or saber that had taken Blair from him. The futility of it, of a senseless accident on a day when they'd been so happy, so carefree, was utterly shocking ... and the reality that, ultimately, it had been Jim's senses, the senses Blair so cherished, that had spelled his doom was horrifying.

"You said you'd never leave me," Jim whispered again, devastated.

But Blair was gone.

And he'd never felt so alone in his life.

Or so empty of everything but pain.

_'I'll see you again someday,'_ he heard in his mind, the breathy compelling promise said with all the love Blair had in his soul.

"You better keep that promise, Chief," he husked brokenly. "I really, really need you to keep that promise."

* * *

The next day, just a little after dawn, Joel and Simon looked up from their campfire and then surged to their feet in alarm when they saw Jim coming out of the trees, carrying Blair's limp body. They ran toward him, calling out to ask what happened, was he badly hurt, but Jim didn't answer. Just kept walking steadily toward them, slowly, as if he was exhausted, but without faltering.

When they got close enough to see his face, they stumbled to a halt. There was no mistaking that pale rigid mask of control that still didn't manage to conceal a grief so profound that it ripped into them. And they sagged with the terrible knowledge that Blair was gone.

"How?" Joel gasped, but Simon gripped his arm and shook his head. Jim was beyond any kind of response and explanations would have to wait. They could see that Jim was barely able to keep going, and wondered how far he'd walked with his precious burden. Wondered how he could stand at all, knowing what Blair had meant to him. Anxious to help in some way, Simon moved forward. "Here, let me take him."

"No," Jim replied. Not belligerently, but with scarcely any inflection at all; like he wasn't really there, somehow, but somewhere far away.

They fell in beside him and followed along as he continued on to the Forge Manager's house. When they got close, Joel hastened ahead to bang on the door. A maid answered, and Joel asked urgently for the General.

In moments, Washington strode out onto the porch, still in his shirt-sleeves, not yet having donned his vest and frock coat. When he saw Jim coming toward him and realized what he was seeing, sorrow filled his face and he hastened down the steps to meet the Captain.

"Oh, my boy," he said with heartfelt regret, "I'm so deeply sorry."

Jim's jaw clenched but he gave a grave nod of acknowledgement. Not quite meeting the General's eyes, he said smartly, "Permission to take Corporal Sandburg home, sir."

"And where is the Corporal's home, son?" he asked gently, knowing Blair's history and evidently very aware that Jim was in shock.

For a moment, Jim floundered and his lip trembled. But then he swallowed hard and rasped, "Long Island, sir."

Washington looked at Simon and Joel, and they shook their heads mutely, all of them understanding the impossibility of what Jim was wanting to do.

"Jim," Washington said very carefully as he reached to clasp his shoulder. "We're a long way from Long Island. And in the heat of the summer. It's too far to take him back for burial there."

Jim closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. His throat worked and he couldn't seem to breathe. He began to shudder and then he started to crumple. Washington hastily took Blair's body from his arms and Simon caught him as he fell.

Joel swiped tears from his eyes and shook his head. "I don' know how he's gonna survive this. I jus' don' know."

* * *

When Jim woke, he was in a strange bed in a darkened room with a single candle burning by the window. He felt confused and even more so when he turned his head and saw his General sitting by the bed. But the sadness on the man's face brought it all back with a wrenching crash, and he gasped with the pain that filled him.

"Where is he?" he demanded harshly.

"Safe. Simon and Joel are standing watch over him," Washington told him calmly, and then asked, "What happened?"

Jim turned his face away and his gaze raked the ceiling. "We got caught in the storm. There was a lightning strike. Blair ... Blair pushed me out of the way, but he got caught by the falling tree."

Washington nodded solemnly. "We'll hold a service tomorrow," he said. When Jim turned to him, looking as if he was about to protest, the General went on, "And you have my leave to take his ashes home."

Grief spasmed Jim's face and he struggled to master his emotions. Finally, he rasped, "Thank you, sir."

The General patted him on the shoulder, and stood to leave him in peace. But he paused by the door and half turned back as he mused, "Corporal Sandburg was an unusual individual. Sad history but it didn't break him. He was a good, fine man. A brave one." Giving Jim a straight look, he said, "I'm very glad to know that he found his home, and he seemed most satisfied to know where he belonged."

Jim's lips thinned and he had to force back the lump that clogged his throat. "Yes, sir," he husked, turning his face away.

* * *

The next morning when they gathered on the hillside overlooking the valley, Washington himself gave the eulogy. The storm had long passed, and the air was clear and warm with just a hint of autumn's chill on the light breeze. The sky above was almost painfully blue. They stood in a small half circle around the pyre on which Blair's body had been laid.

Jim didn't hear most of what was said, wasn't aware of much of anything except that Blair was dead. But when Washington's voice lifted in closure, the words nearly brought him to his knees.

"I'm not one to quote much scripture, but I believe these words hold a profound truth: And greater love has no man than this, that a man shall lay down his life for his friend."

"Amen," Simon and Joel rumbled solemnly.

"And so, we take our leave of this brave and good man, though we will miss him sorely for our world is less without him. May his spirit always fly free."

At a nod from the General, Simon moved forward with the torch, but Jim stepped in front of him and took the fiery brand. Wordlessly, he turned to face the pyre. Once more he gazed upon the beloved face, still now and peaceful, the pain gone. Taking a breath, he said softly with rough sorrow, "You're the best man I ever knew, the best friend any man could ever have." Blinking back the burn behind his eyes, he sniffed and went on, "I trusted you as I've never trusted anyone. And ... and I'm going to trust you one more time, Chief. I'm going trust that you'll keep your promise."

And then he set the torch to the kindling, and stepped back as the fire whooshed up.

He saluted sharply, and stood there, rigidly at attention, until all that was left was ash. Then, waiting for the embers to cool, he sat on the ground clutching the medallion of the wolf and the panther that now hung around _his_ neck, refusing to be drawn away; refusing food or drink. When it was time, he carefully scooped up the ashes into a sturdy rosewood box the General had gotten from somewhere and given to him.

* * *

Simon and Joel traveled with him, though he would have preferred to go alone. They respected his silences and gave him space, but they also insisted that he eat and rest. When they got close to New York, they drew him away from the city and east toward the coast. "General Washington sent word ahead. Colonel Glover has arranged transport for you under cover of darkness, so you can get to Long Island safely."

He nodded, distantly appreciating the forethought and consideration.

Three days later, he stood on the cliff on the edge of their family land, overlooking the Atlantic. Alone, he dug the grave and tenderly placed the rosewood box into the earth. He stood for a long moment, just staring at it, and then he slowly covered it over with dirt. Taking his time, he found a slab of stone that would suit as a marker and, with Blair's knife and warclub, he hammered Blair's name and age and the date of his death into the rock. He paused for a moment and drifted his fingers over the age. "You didn't even make it to twenty-one, Chief. You fought so hard, for so long, for freedom and you never once got a chance to vote."

He secured the headstone and then found a boulder he could roll to the side of the grave. Sagging down upon it, looking up into the clear, cerulean sky, he imagined he could see Blair smiling wistfully at him, the image so real that he blinked and wondered if he was losing his mind. But there was just the sky, and the lonely wind that rustled through the long grass, and the low rumble of the roiling surf below. He sat there the whole day, trying to find the will to go on but he felt numb and empty and more than a little lost. It had been just over two years since they'd met on this very island, not all that far as the crow flies from where he sat. Memories played through his mind; some of them made him smile with wistful poignancy. The wind riffled through his hair, catching his attention, and he felt the warmth of the setting sun on his back, as if ... almost as if ... he could feel Blair's touch.

The wind riffled again, murmuring through the grass, like a low, soothing voice and he closed his eyes, trying to listen, trying to hear what Blair had heard in the wind. And then he stiffened, and frowned, straightened as memories cascaded. He gaped at the gravestone and shook his head. "You knew," he whispered hoarsely. "Somehow, you always knew something ... something was going to happen. That you wouldn't be able to stay." His voice broke. "Sonofabitch, Chief. That's why, isn't it? That's why you worked so damned hard to be sure I could do it without you."

He shivered and hugged himself, caught between fury and shame and nearly overcome with the memory of Blair's love for him. His senses. His senses had brought them together. And his senses were what had brought about Blair's death, saving him one last time, watching his back, pushing him out of danger. The senses he thought, still thought, especially now, were a curse, but that Blair had always believed were awesome gifts. Gifts that Blair had taught him to use with confidence, and even with enjoyment. He hated the damned senses in those moments. Wanted to do nothing more than fling himself off the damned cliff.

But the wind mocked him, mimicking Blair's voice. 'Not yet,' it whispered. 'Not yet.'

Wearily, he nodded to himself. Blair had always told him that he was like a secret weapon, that he made a crucial difference in their war for independence. And that war wasn't yet done. A job to do. That's what Blair had said. That he had a job to do.

Pushing himself to his feet, he gazed down at the grave. "You're a hard man, Sandburg," he rasped. "You ask more than I feel inclined to give. Because ... because it's just ... just wrong somehow. Without you here, with me. Wrong. But ... but you worked so hard. Gave me so much. I can't let you down now. So ... so I'll go on. I'll do the job set out for me. I'll do my best ... but, I dunno, Chief, I just don't know if I can keep the senses reined in without you here with me. I'll try to remember everything you taught me. But no promises after that, Blair. None but the one you gave me. That I'll see you again ... someday."

He straightened to attention, and saluted. And then he turned and marched away, back to the war.

* * *

_September, 1782_

The memories faded and Jim found himself back on the edge of the world. "Someday," he whispered, the breath tight in his chest, and he could taste blood in the back of his throat. Leaning heavily against the gravestone, he lifted his gaze to the sky. So blue. The colour of Blair's eyes. "I'm tired, Chief," he murmured hoarsely. "I want to come home."

"It's okay, Jim," Blair said gently, hunkering down beside him and reaching out to caress his cheek. "You don't have to fight anymore."

"B-Blair?" he gasped, feeling the touch but afraid to believe it. Seeing him. Hearing him. Oh, God. _"Blair?"_

"Yeah, man, it's me. You're not going crazy," Sandburg smiled at him and stroked a tender hand over his head. And then, so _very_ glad that Jim was finally able to see and hear him again, he went on with a rambling, affectionate scolding. "But I gotta tell you, it didn't have to be this hard, you know? If you'd just quit fighting your senses, or believe in your own ability to control them, like I showed you you could, they wouldn't bother you so much. We've got to keep working on this. I just can't stand watching day after day and seeing you so miserable. And you won't listen to me. Man, it's like I'm not even there."

Not really hearing the words, Jim just drank in the rich cadences of Blair's voice, the warm, sure touch of his hand, the sight of his face, those sparkling eyes and bright smile. His eyes glazing with tears, trembling with incredulous joy, Jim reached out and tentatively touched him. He was solid, not an illusion. Real. Right there. Real! Awash with overwhelming, devastating relief to have him back again, Jim pulled him into a tight, fierce embrace. "Oh, God, I missed you," he rasped hoarsely. "I missed you so much."

"I know," Blair whispered huskily, hugging him right back. "I missed you, too. Well, sort of. I never really left you. But it wasn't the same."

Stunned, confused, not caring that it made no sense, Jim gripped his shoulders and pushed back, to see his face. "Damn it, don't you _ever_ do that again. Don't you go and leave me behind like that again! Not ever again."

Laughing unrepentantly, Blair shook his head. Standing, he held out a hand to Jim and hauled him up. "Yeah, yeah, you say that _every_ time it happens, man. But you _know_ we don't control stuff like that. We really have to work on this control stuff, Jim. Keeps getting you into trouble. Either that or we have _got_ to figure out a way to get around this amnesia thing where we forget everything when we're caught up in a lifetime," he teased. "Which, given your persistent control issues, might actually be easier."

Amnesia? Lifetime? Jim blinked at the words and looked around, belatedly realized he felt well and strong again, that the pain was gone. And then he ruefully shook his head and looked back at his body. "I never get used to this, you know?"

"Yeah, I _know_ ," Blair said, sounding aggrieved. But his expression softened and he sighed. "I hate it, too, when I lose you. It's hard, so hard, to keep going on. You did good, Jim. Nearly got your head blown off a time or two too often, but good, all things considered. You made a very real difference."

Jim scrubbed his face and shook his head, not wanting to hear it. Clenching his jaw, he stared out at the horizon. "It's not right," he growled. "You died way too young this time. Protecting me. Again. As usual."

"Yeah, well, that's my job, but I _didn't_ leave you," Blair argued. "Not really. I never do. Man, we have _got_ to work on some strategies, some way to help you be less ... less blind to the mystical. You always get so concrete. I know, I know it's because your senses are all about experiencing what's really there ... but you _can_ see spirits, sometimes ... once or twice." When Jim gave him a testy look, he insisted, "You've seen them before. It frustrating on my side, too, you know. Sometimes ... sometimes I think I'm just about to make the connection and you block me, tell yourself you're imagining things. I talked myself hoarse, man. And, you know what? A couple times I had to tackle you or you really would have got your head shot off. And that's not a nice thing to see, Jim. I really hate it when that happens, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Jim muttered, looking away.

"Hey, remember, we don't have to keep coming back," Blair said, gripping his arm, trying to be reasonable when Jim felt just so damned angry, even though there wasn't really anything to be angry about. They'd done this dance before, more times than he could count. "C'mon," Blair cajoled, "We do this because, well, because you can help, and you protect people." Shaking his head, he mumbled, "And they sure seem to constantly need a _whole_ lot of protection."

"Oh, no," Jim retorted, turning to face him. "This isn't just about me, here. Sure, sure, I can't do the sentinel stuff on my own and you've always been there for me, I know that. I need you to help me with the senses, to do what I do. But we come back because of what you offer, too. I might protect them, but you're the one who teaches - when enough of them start paying attention to _you_ , maybe they won't need _me_ around so much. _You're_ the one who makes the real difference. Only ... only you didn't get a chance to do your thing this last lifetime. And that's just not fair, Chief. It's not."

Giving him a bemused smile, Blair caught his arm and tugged him along toward the horizon. "Yeah, but, that's the point, isn't it? Life isn't always fair. That's why we do what we do, to help where we can. It's all about learning, Jim. Learning what we can with what we're given. Doing the best we can to make a positive difference. And, hey," he laughed, nudging Jim with his elbow, "you got to admit, life, living, is a wild ride. I mean, there are endless possibilities, right? Forever would be kinda boring if we didn't, you know, engage?"

"Maybe," Jim groused. "But most seem to be just fine with one or two lifetimes. I think we're adrenaline junkies, Chief."

"Nah," Blair objected. "Well, maybe, partly. But ... it's what you are, Jim. You're a sentinel. You have always been a Watcher, that's what you were created to be, and I love being your Companion. We're just doing what we were always meant to do. What's _right_ for us to do."

Nodding, Jim looped an arm around his shoulders. "I just don't want to ever do it again like this last time. I don't want to be separated for so long, you know? When I'm here, I know it's just a blink of time. But ... but when I'm living it? It hurts, Chief. It just hurts too much."

"Yeah, well, I really hate it, too, you know. That's why we've got to work on this, because there are never any guarantees. There can't be or it wouldn't be life and our choices and actions would be, I don't know, meaningless. They have to be real in the moment, our own choices - and choices have consequences," Blair replied, the rush of words clipping along with his usual speed and vigor. "So, I've been thinking about it, and I've got some ideas about how to help you be more in tune with the mystical when we're, uh, well, on earth. There are some things I want you to try, and we've got some time, not a lot, but some, before we're needed back there again. I think, maybe, we could be using visioning techniques. Or maybe our spirit animals could help - you know, actually _talk_ to us once in a while and not always be so damned cryptic. That if, well, if you saw a jaguar that wasn't there and really believed it was real and it told you to just relax and open up your mind, I don't know, maybe you might be more willing to think I'm really there, when I'm not, but I am."

He looked up to see Jim regarding him quizzically. Shrugging, Blair threw up his hands. "You know what I mean. If, when, well, when we get separated like last time. So you'd know ... you'd know you're not really alone."

"You're talking about more tests, aren't you, Sandburg?" Jim challenged wryly.

"Uh, well, yeah," Blair admitted, and then gave him a gamin grin.

Drawing him close to his side, Jim shook his head, and then laughed in resignation. "Okay," he agreed. "Okay. It's worth a try."

"Really? All right! That's great! Well, here's what I was thinking we could ...."

Jim listened as Blair rattled on, relishing the rolling cadences of the rich, warm voice, immeasurably grateful to hear him, see him, touch him once again. But his eyes grew distant as he reflected on the lifetime he'd just lived, and he paused on their way to the horizon to look down at his soul's mate.

"What?" Blair asked, looking at him with such open affection, willing to put all his ideas on hold to hear whatever it was he had to say.

"Back there, in that lifetime, when ... when I couldn't seem to find the words," Jim said with deep concern, "you said ... you said you knew. Did you really?" His throat tightened. "It's just that ... that I know we have to start over every time and ... and I wouldn't want to think that you never knew, while you were right there, alive in that place and time, that you didn't know ...."

"I knew, Jim," Blair reassured him with a soft smile. "No matter what, however hard it gets, deep down ... I always know you love me every bit as much as I love you. I always know."

With a small vulnerable smile, Jim nodded, wanting to believe him. "I don't know how," he sighed.

"You show me," Blair reassured him, pulling him close for a fierce hug. "You show me in ways there aren't enough words to convey."

"I'm glad, Chief," he whispered into Blair's hair. "At least I'm getting something right."

Laughing, Blair again pulled him toward the stars. "C'mon," he urged. "Like I said, we don't have a huge amount of time here." Chuckling at Blair's eternal exuberance and seemingly truly infinite number of new ideas about how they might get it better the next time around, Jim very willingly followed along. He was finally back where he belonged, with Blair. He was finally home.

* * *


End file.
